


The Lonely Hearts Affair

by themorrigan7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: 1960s, Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Codes & Ciphers, Cold War, Dancing, Espionage, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Journalism, Newspapers, Romance, Slow Burn, Soviet Union, Spies, Spies & Secret Agents, Spy - Freeform, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23360056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorrigan7/pseuds/themorrigan7
Summary: Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, and Gaby Teller go undercover at a top London newspaper to investigate T.H.R.U.S.H.'s latest nefarious plot. But with all this espionage hi-jinx afoot, will Illya and Gaby ever admit their feelings for one another? This fluffy, pun-heavy romance features the characters from the 2015 Man from U.N.C.L.E. film in a spy caper straight out of the television series. For the incomparable Draco_sollicitus.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller
Comments: 24
Kudos: 47





	1. The Buried Lede Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Draco_sollicitus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draco_sollicitus/gifts).



**_December 22, 1964_ **

**_The Plaza Hotel, Manhattan, New York_ **

Seeing red, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin gripped the edge of the hotel bar. If he let go of its glossy surface — even for an instant — he might just lose control and punch Napoleon right in that perfectly square jaw.

“Cowboy, you cannot be serious,” he said.

Napoleon Solo swirled his glass of overpriced bourbon. Unflappable as ever, all bright eyes and smooth movements, despite all the drinks he’d consumed on their booze-drenched march across New York. “I’m afraid that, in all this excitement, actually _booking_ the hotel rooms just slipped my mind, Peril.”

Illya growled so loudly that several people sitting at the bar turned to see what the hell was going on. Then, he bristled. Getting into a loud, sloppy argument in one of the most famous hotels in all of New York City... well, it was bad spy craft, to say the least. But Napoleon certainly didn’t  _ sound _ sorry. 

“I don’t think we’ll be able to make arrangements at this late an hour, either," Napoleon continued. "This is the Plaza, after all, comrade. It’s exclusive. Very exclusive.” 

In that moment, in the dim light of the bar, Illya thought the Cowboy looked like the host of one of those ridiculous televised dance contests that Waverly liked to watch in the office. All exaggerated grins and raised eyebrows. Fake. 

“We can’t go back to the office," the Russian said, darkly.

Ground had finally been broken on U.N.C.L.E.’s new Manhattan headquarters, fronted by a rundown tailor's shop. The drawn-out construction had prompted musings from Waverly that T.H.R.U.S.H. had infiltrated the borough’s zoning board. For now, all operatives would be left out in the cold, so to speak. There’d be no sleeping it off beneath a triangle-shaped desk in the office tonight. 

Solo shrugged his large shoulders and winced. “I suppose we’ll have to rely on the kindness of strangers.”

Just then, a mink-draped redhead slunk past them, her gloved hand brushing against Napoleon’s shoulder. Illya saw her slip something alongside his friend’s scarlet pocket square. 

“You have been bugged,” Illya said, once she’d sauntered out of earshot. “Incompetently.” 

“I don’t know about that.” Napoleon smiled and plucked something bronze from his breast pocket. A hotel key, attached to a hexagonal fob emblazoned with the woman's room number. “That was the Swiss ambassador’s mistress.” Napoleon jangled the key in Illya's face. "I think I just secured a room for the night.”

Illya swore. Sleep deprivation and a few drinks — downed much earlier in the night — had melted his thoughts, thawing his words till they were as slippery and slushy as the streets outside. But he still wasn’t tired or drunk enough to find any amusement in this situation. “This isn’t the first time this has happened. Are all Americans this stupid when it comes to travel arrangements?”

“Yes." Napoleon sipped his drink. "Very stupid.”

“You told me that you had connections. That there was no way that they would not provide you with a room— “

“Maybe travel arrangements aren’t my main concern, my lonely Russian friend.”

“Lonely Russian friend? What —”

“I’m just saying…” Napoleon raised his eyebrows. “ _ She _ has a room. You could stay with  _ her _ .”

“ _ Her _ ?” Illya picked up his glass, only to realize it was empty. “Who is her? I mean… what is she?” Grumbling, he slammed down the glass. “Never mind!” He staggered to his feet and grabbed his thin coat off the barstool. The dim, wood-paneled room wobbled before his eyes. “I should have never come to this den of bourgeoisie corruption.”

The handful of lingering patrons and wait staff slowly turned to stare at him. Illya’s declaration had been a little louder than he intended. 

“Alright then. Time for this little communist to go to bed.” Napoleon clapped his hand on his friend’s shoulder and led him out of the bar and through the glittering lobby.  “You know, Peril, sometimes you remind me of the words of Mr. Andy Marvell:  _ Had we but world enough and time, this coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way, to walk, and pass our long love’s day _ .”

“What?” Illya frowned, but by then the pair was outside, bursting out into the snowstorm. A yellow cab waited in front of the hotel. Napoleon swung open the door and helped his friend in.

“I called it for you,” he said, slyly. “Even paid your fare and tip. It’ll take you where you need to go.” Then he slammed the door. 

Kuryakin rolled his eyes and grumbled as the taxi pulled into the chilly night. In no time at all, he was being deposited on the sidewalk in front of some nondescript building. 

He looked up. The apartments were all dark, except for one. There, on the sixth floor, a dim but warm glow trembled behind the lace curtains. 

“ _ Had we but world enough and time _ . _ ” _ Then, Illya remembered. Napoleon had just inherited a penthouse apartment on the edge of Central Park from his late Aunt Amy. They could have easily spent the night there. The Russian gritted his teeth. He knew exactly what Solo — that conniving capitalist — had been up to.  All of a sudden, he felt cold. This, after all, had to be Gaby’s place. But he couldn’t go inside and see her. Not like this.

So, after several minutes of pacing around the block and almost bringing himself to ring the bell, Kuryakin began to walk away, muttering curses under his breath. Once he was less disoriented, he fully intended to make his way to the subway and spend the night sitting under the stars of Grand Central. 

“Illya?” 

Kuryakin turned around. There she was, wrapped up in an emerald coat, her brown hair spilling out from under a matching hat. She stood in the doorway of the building, beckoning him.

He stared at her for a moment. Then he followed her inside.

“Elevator’s broken,” Gaby told him, as they crossed the lobby. They ascended the freezing flights in silence. “Are you okay to walk up? Not too tired from all that exercise outside?”

“I…” Of course she had seen him running around in the snow, like a fool. Solo had called her. “I’m fine.”

“I must warn you, this isn’t anything like a Plaza suite,” she teased, once they reached her floor.

Illya blinked. Napoleon would reply with some perfect bon mot. All Illya could come up with was: “If it’s not up to my standards, I will leave immediately.” He blinked. “This is a joke.”

Gaby lightly punched him in the shoulder. Then she unlocked the door and led him into her apartment. The place was tiny, with a couch, a small twin bed, a table, a kitchenette, and trunks of clothing all squashed in together. 

But in the dim lighting, the space looked cozy, not cramped. Illya now saw the source of the warm light in the window — a false fireplace in front of the couch. He removed his soaked coat and hung it off the back of a chair.

“Have a seat,” Gaby said, gesturing at the lumpy plum couch. Illya obeyed, staring into the electrically emblazoned cardboard bricks and flames.

When Teller returned, she was wearing navy pajamas, with her brown hair tied up. Gaby placed her hands on her hips and scrutinized the stiff, glassy-eyed giant on her sofa. “How much did you have to drink?”

“ _ Pashallesta _ .” He broke into a grin. “I am Russian! I can drink everything.”

“You smiled. That’s a bad sign. Want some more?”

“Yes. Please.”

Clapping, Gaby scurried off to the kitchenette and returned with two steaming mugs of spiced wine.

Illya gulped the drink too fast and burnt his tongue. “This is better than the Plaza.”

“Don’t let Napoleon hear you say that. Did you have fun with him, by the way?” 

“Cowboy and I have very different ideas of fun.” Seeing her skeptical smile, he relented. “But yes.” He finished the wine and set down the cup. “Cowboy is quite… he is an interesting fellow.”

“Sometimes a little too interesting for his own good.”

“The Swiss ambassador’s mistress certainly thought so.”

“Is that where he is?”

“Yes.”

“He called ahead to let me know he was ‘sending you over.’” She twisted a loose strand of hair around her finger. “I suppose he wants…”

“He wants us to become a couple,” Illya said, abruptly.

“I was going to say he wants us to sleep together.” At that, both U.N.C.L.E. agents burst out into nervous laughter. “What do you suppose that’s all about?” Gaby asked. 

“He is … what they call …. a little busybody.” Illya shrugged. “I’m sure he would very much love to think of himself as the office matchmaker.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think he’s a fancy man who spends too much money on truffles.”

“No.” Gaby sunk into the couch a little more. “I mean… do you agree with him? About us?”

Illya stared into her brown eyes, lost. His mind overflowed with all the words he wanted to share with her. Every day. But here, in her apartment, with her eyes on him, he was frozen. Illya opened his mouth, and nothing came out.

“I haven’t thought about it,” he managed. Pain gathered in his chest, then faded. It was better this way. The things Illya loved tended not to have a sterling survival rate, anyways.

“Just Napoleon’s daydreams, I suppose.” Gaby leaned closer, a strange smile creeping across her face. “You’re frozen. Your eyelashes are still covered in ice.” 

“I  _ am _ ice,” he said. "I feel nothing." He meant it as a joke, but it came out sounding awkward and dull. 

“Illya.” Gaby pressed her warm palm against his cheek. “That's not true.” Then, she hopped off the couch and sauntered over to the corner of the room. “Let’s play some music.” Illya saw what she was walking toward — a colorful, neatly stacked pile of records, a tower of love songs rising out of the chaotic room. “Any requests?”

“‘Cry to Me,’” he said, without hesitation. 

Gaby smiled but she didn’t reply. She plucked the record from the heap and put it on. She didn’t dance for him, as she had that night in Rome. She just sat back down on the couch.

They didn’t talk much after that.

At some point, she curled up on one corner of the sofa and fell asleep. Illya watched her breathe for a moment. Then he stared straight into the false flames, feeling the ice on his eyelashes melt. 

▽ ▽ ▽

**_December 5, 1965_ **

**_Outskirts of Budapest, Hungary_ **

Illya fiddled with the knobs on the car radio.  Of course, there was no signal in the bowels of the parking garage. There probably wasn’t even a decent radio station in the whole country — this was the Hungarian People’s Republic, after all. The music of the capitalists had been labeled subversive and banned altogether. Everyone knew that rock and roll corrupted the resolve of the youth. 

His eyes fixed on tiny, burning orange dot hovering in the darkness, fifteen feet away from the car. That was  _ London Echo _ foreign correspondent Ian Barnes (or, that is, the fiery tip of his cigarette). 

Illya had been driving Barnes around for several days, playing chauffeur to this top international reporter. Barnes was on the verge of clandestinely interviewing General János Nagybácsi, a powerful Hungarian official, about some nefarious scheme, possibly involving T.H.R.U.S.H.

Illya’s assignment was to pose as Barnes’s driver, protect him, and discover the nature of T.H.R.U.S.H.’s plot by eavesdropping on the interview with the general. At that point, it might be necessary to either take Barnes into custody to prevent him from breaking the sensitive story or even help the general to defect across the Iron Curtain. Things could change in an instant. Napoleon and Gaby were better in such improvisational missions. Illya preferred to stick to a concrete plan. 

Now, footsteps echoed through the dusty garage. Illya flicked on the headlights and exited the car, drawing his Walther from into his shoulder holster. The general stepped into the light. His tilted-down hat obscured his eyes. His bulky trench coat hung on him, stiff and brand new, like he had just bought it for the secret meeting.

“Who is this giant?” the general gestured at Illya, who folded his arms and scowled.

“It’s fine, he’s just my driver,” Barnes said.

Nagybácsi eyed Illya. “He makes me nervous.”

“I’ll wait in the car, then,” Illya grumbled. No matter, he could eavesdrop from the driver’s seat. 

“It will never get out… the fact that I am telling you this?” the general asked Barnes. He spoke English with a slightly British accent — he had been educated in the West. It was surprising for an official with such a suspiciously bourgeoisie education to rise so high in the government, Illya thought.

“Yes, certainly.” Barnes nodded. He was a quiet man with thinning blonde hair. He’d been in Germany in the 1930s, covering the rise of Nazism before world leaders started taking notice. Now he migrated between Berlin and London, diligently documenting the Cold War. He didn’t talk much, for the most part. Illya liked him. 

“Good. That is good. Mr. Barnes, because what I have to tell you is dangerous. We are dealing with the possibility of a serum falling into the hands of a megalomaniac… a serum with the power to kill ten percent of humanity and turn the rest into mindless slaves.”

Illya drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. It had better be dangerous, or he’d have flown out to this godforsaken place for nothing. Barnes retrieved his tape recorder from his jacket. “May I record?” 

The general nodded. Then everything became red and hot and roaring and Illya was wrapping his arms around his face, curling away from the shattering glass and the rubble slamming down on the car roof. 

He shut his eyes and saw the color of Gaby’s flickering paper fire. 

▽▽▽

**_December 9, 1965_ **

**_City of Westminster, London, England_ **

“Whoa!” Solo squinted his eyes and took a closer look at the small black letters. He couldn’t believe was he was reading, sitting on a bench against the gray backdrop of Hyde Park.

“Surprised, Cowboy?” Napoleon flipped the newspaper down to see his friend, Illya Kuryakin, standing over him. The Russian was bundled up in dark pea coat with a black ushanka pulled over his ears. The hat barely concealed the white bandage wound around his forehead. 

“Peril! Looking rather stereotypical, aren’t we? And a bit worse for wear!” Beneath his coat and shirt, Solo knew that Illya’s torn-up abdomen was all wrapped up in layers of bandages. “How was your trip to the Pearl of the Danube?” 

“A parking garage fell on me, Cowboy.”

“So I heard.” Napoleon had gotten the call from Waverly himself while playing Trente et Quarante in Monte Carlo. He’d stumbled out of the casino, mind numb with booze and fear. All ready to jump on a flight to Budapest. The police grabbed him, assuming some sort of heist was afoot. Any other night, they might have been right. 

By the time he was released in the morning, Waverly had sent word that Illya had clawed his way out of the rubble.  Of course.  Solo shouldn’t have worried about Peril. The man was indestructible, a grim Soviet Superman. Still, the Russian looked a bit more wobbly and pale than usual. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Never better.” Illya turned away for a moment. Napoleon followed his gaze — an older woman with a stooped posture, a purple kerchief, and a cane, was tottering toward a nearby crosswalk. “One moment.” He darted over to help her cross the street and then returned to sit next to his friend. 

“You know, for a KGB man, you’re quite the Boy Scout,” Solo said. Illya just shrugged. “So modest. That’s my Peril.” Napoleon patted his friend on the arm, prompting a wince. 

“Don’t poke at me.”

“Sorry. Now, take a look at this.” The American agent jabbed the newsprint and handed the issue of the  _ London Echo _ over to Illya. 

Illya scrutinized the article’s headline. “Holiday Fashions for Every Party?”

“No! Look at the copy. Look at the  _ spelling errors _ .”

Illya shook his head and handed the paper back. “One would never see such mistakes in the Soviet press. This debauched Western media is more concerned with high-pitched, suit-wearing singing quartets and the sexual exploits of corrupt politicians than accuracy.” 

“Yeah, you Soviets really run a tight ship. I’m sure those Moscow propaganda machines really give a new meaning to killing a story.” 

“Propaganda machines?” Illya puffed his chest, ready to defend his nation’s media. 

Napoleon ignored him and checked his watch. “Guess it’s time to head to work.”

“Maybe we could get coffee first?” Illya’s stomach twisted. “Or maybe you could attend the meeting and fill me in later…” 

Napoleon stared at him. “Are you nervous or something?”

“No!” Illya stood up and glowered. “Forget I said this.”

“Kuryakin. Look at you.” Napoleon shook his head “Scared of a certain small German girl?”

“This is untrue. The small German girl — I mean… Gaby… I saw her last week...” Illya stood there, hands shaking, as Solo continued to pretend to read the paper. “Gaby… we are  _ friends and comrades _ .”

"Huh," Solo said. In response, the former KGB agent swatted his newspaper to the ground and kicked the pages a few times, for good measure. Then he picked up the whole mess and dropped it into the nearest bin.

▽▽▽

**_U.N.C.L.E. London Station_ **

Gaby Teller brushed past the young man in the lab coat and swung open the hood of U.N.C.L.E.’s latest automotive effort.

“Ms. Teller, please, I don’t think we’re supposed to be messing with the car like this,” said the young technician. 

“Messing with it? I’m fixing it up for you. You technology people should be thanking me,” Gaby said, leaning over the engine. She was in her element. U.N.C.L.E. provided most of her transportation nowadays. It had been too long since she’d really gotten to dig into a car like this. “Can you grab me a wrench? There’s got to be one around here somewhere.”

“Gaby, please, you’re scaring our interns.” Gaby looked up from the car to see Alexander Waverly standing in the doorway, shaking his head. A beaming Napoleon popped out from behind the regional chief.

“Gaby Teller!” He strode over and pulled her into a hug. Gaby carefully held her hands up to avoid staining his impeccable suit with her oil-streaked palms. 

Illya appeared in the doorway. He seemed to be slouching behind Solo, but he was too tall to effectively hide. Gaby gave him a small smile. He nodded at her, face blank. 

“Budapest?” she asked, pointing at the bandage peaking out from under his ushanka. 

“It is nothing,” he said, removing the hat.

Before she could ask more, Waverly ushered everyone into his nearby office. 

“This is nice.” The Englishman sat down at his desk and clapped his hands together. “ _ The trio _ . Back together after all these months.” Gaby took the seat directly facing her boss. Illya began pacing. Napoleon leaned against the far wall. “Lovely. Now. About the mission. Well, I suppose Mr. Kuryakin would be the best person to explain this… _dramatic_ situation.”

Illya nodded. “I was assigned to protect Ian Barnes, a British journalist. A top Hungarian government official, General János Nagybácsi, was to give him information about some plot in the country concerning T.H.R.U.S.H. It involved a serum that the general claimed could kill ten percent of the world, and brainwash the rest. However, at the meeting... there was a bomb.” Illya’s eyes never wavered from the wall. “The reporter and the source were killed.” 

Gaby watched Illya’s hands clench as he spoke. She wanted to reach out and grab them. Part of her was still seething that Waverly had told Solo the news of the explosion first. They had only broken it to her after they had received confirmation that Illya had survived. Maybe they thought she couldn't handle it. Maybe they were right.

“So, basically, we need to find out what the general wanted to tell this reporter,” Napoleon said. “And we need to find out who blew them up.”

“Do we know who has the serum?” Gaby asked.

“I believe the Soviets have it now that the general has died, but they won’t admit it. It sounds like they don’t know what they have on their hands. But Nagybácsi sounded fairly certain that criminal elements were gearing up to steal it.”

“Indeed,” Waverly said. “Now, here’s where we come in. Naturally, the death of a widely respected foreign correspondent has attracted a lot of coverage from the press. We have arranged to embed you three in Barnes’s publication,  _ The London Echo _ .” Waverly reached into his desk, pulling out three sheets. “Your impressive resumes. Photographer.” He handed the piece of paper to Napoleon. “Investigative reporter.” Gaby accepted her resume with a nod. “And copy girl — I mean, man. Copy  _ man _ .” Waverly held out the last sheet to Illya, who furiously snatched it away. 

“Switch,” Illya whispered at Napoleon, who shook his head. “Switch with me!” 

“Mr. Kuryakin, please don’t be alarmed,” Waverly said. “We need someone embedded in the newsroom. We must find out if Barnes left any clues at his workplace. Especially considering this global leadership summit happening in London in only a few days — we’ll need someone in town in case that becomes pertinent to our case. In the meantime, Ms. Teller and Mr. Solo will pose as a young, dynamic pair of married globe-trotting journalists.” Gaby noticed Illya glaring at Napoleon.  _ Interesting _ . She smiled. “The editor of  _ The Echo _ thinks he’s hired two new stars to cover Mr. Barnes’s dramatic passing.”

“ _ The London Echo _ ,” Gaby said. “That’s one of the oldest newspapers in England, isn’t it?”

“Correct, Ms. Teller. However, their prestige has declined quite a bit, in recent years. Like many of the older British newspapers, they’ve recently been bought up and… altered… by a certain corporation.”

“Altered? How so?” Illya asked.

Waverly snorted, reached into his desk, and pulled out the latest copy of _The_ _Chelsea Star_. “They were purchased by the same company that did this to my favorite evening paper. Just look at this. The full report on Barnes took a few days to come out of Hungary, but here it is.” 

A large picture of rubble was splashed across the front page with the headline: “BLACK AND WHITE AND DEAD ALL OVER: WORLD FAMOUS JOURNALIST BLOWN TO SMITHEREENS IN COMMUNIST HUNGARY!”

“Subtle,” Napoleon said. 

“ _ The Echo _ ’s not  _ this _ bad yet,” Waverly said. “But I wouldn’t put it past Rush and Associates to twist them into a full-blown tabloid soon enough.”

Gaby held up her hand. “What was that company called?”

“Rush and Associates,” Waverly said. “The corporation owned by self-made real estate and media magnate Thomas Henry Rush.” 

“So, T.H.R.U.S.H.?” Gaby titled her head to the side. When no one responded, she threw up her hands. “Come on! Thomas Henry Rush. T.H. Rush. Did no one else notice that?”

“Oh dear. That is concerning,” Waverly said. Shaking her head, Gaby stood up to leave. Napoleon and Illya followed suit. “Could be a coincidence, but definitely something to think about. Please be doubly careful, in that case.”

“We’ll try not to end up black and white and dead all over,” Napoleon said, waving as the group exited.

“Tasteless.” Waverly leaned back in his chair and adjusted his glasses. “Absolutely tasteless.” 


	2. The Agony Aunt Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon and Gaby fight over Illya's makeover. Kuryakin becomes a copy man. The U.N.C.L.E. agents discover that the newspaper business is more dangerous than they ever could have imagined.

_**U.N.C.L.E. London Station** _

“You’re out of your mind,” Gaby told Napoleon. “You’d risk our cover — the entire mission — for your own personal glory?”

Grinning like a madman, Solo turned to face her. “Yes. For _this_ , I would.”

They were sitting on the red leather couch that faced U.N.C.L.E.’s row of dressing rooms. The area looked like the aftermath of a wardrobe explosion; a tangle of jackets, ties, pants, belts, and shoes littered the floor around them.

“Come out here, Peril,” Napoleon commanded. Slowly, very slowly, one of the dressing room doors creaked open. Illya stepped out, wearing a sharp suit and a frown. 

“I hate this and you.” About half an hour earlier, Solo had spilled boiling tea on Illya’s shirt, forcing his friend to undergo a makeover for the mission. 

“What do you think, Gaby?” Napoleon asked, raising his eyebrows.

“A full three piece suit is too dressy for a newspaper office,” Gaby said. “He looks like he belongs at a wedding." Solo noticed Illya perk up a bit. "Ridiculous, in other words.” The Russian seemed to deflate ever so slightly. 

“It’s perfect," Napoleon countered. "Look how the steely blue tie compliments his eyes. And that waistcoat—”

“Too fancy.”

Napoleon stared at Gaby. “I’ve finally got the chance to dress him properly. Don’t ruin this for me.”

“This tie is choking me,” Illya said, tugging at it. “Where did U.N.C.L.E. even get all these extra clothes?”

“They’re just reserve disguises, I think—” Gaby began.

“I’ve been hoarding suits in your size for months, waiting for the opportunity to do this.” Napoleon smiled. Illya’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m joking.” 

Gaby looked skeptical. “Sure.”

“I am  _ not _ a dress up doll,” Illya snapped.

“Of course not!” Napoleon strode over to the fuming Russian. “Now for the finishing touches.” He slipped a silver cigarette case and a carefully folded grey pocket square into Illya’s breast pocket. Lastly, he gently unwrapped the bandage from the Russian’s mostly-healed head. “Perfect.” 

"Napoleon!" Gaby sprung out of her seat. "Not only are risking the mission, you're leaving Kuryakin open for infection?" She stood before Illya, staring up at the cut on his forehead. She started to reach up to touch his face, then stopped herself. Instead she pointed at the spot where windshield glass had sliced into his skin. "How — how does that feel?"

"Oh this?" Illya gestured at his scar, and gave an exaggerated shrug. "Barely feel it."

“Good. Good." Gaby stood there, swaying and unsure of what to say next for a moment. "So then go back and change into something normal."

“I’m not trying on any more outfits!” Illya barked, stomping off.

“I win.” Solo grinned at Gaby. 

“Napoleon, you—”

“Don’t worry, Teller. You can dress him up when you’re married.” 

Solo strolled off after Illya, before Gaby could even respond.

▽▽▽

The front of the London office was disguised as a tailor’s shop. It could never be mistaken for Savile Row. Much like Del Floria's in New York, the store was kept as dark and dusty as possible, in order to stave off customers. 

The trio of U.N.C.L.E. agents loitered in the abandoned store for a moment.

“I’ve got three tickets to the Hammersmith Odron tonight, if anyone’s interested,” Gaby said. “The head of Section VII owed me for fixing her spark plug.”

“Who’s playing?” Illya asked.

“The Beatles.”

Illya rolled his eyes. Solo groaned. “Is that that squeaky band with the horrible hair?”

“Sorry, I forgot that Napoleon Solo doesn’t get out of bed for anything less than an opera.” Gaby smirked at Illya. “How about you?”

“Perhaps I will listen to these bugs with you,” he said. 

“I won’t beg.” Gaby crossed and uncrossed her arms. “How are you? Feeling, that is?”

“Fine.”

“You were just nearly blown up, Kuryakin.”

“Yes.” That hour of his life had stretched on for an eternity. He couldn’t move at all. He couldn’t tell if he was paralyzed or just stuck within the burning rubble of the parking garage. But he didn’t want to worry her. “But I did gymnastics at the University of Georgia in Tbilisi. I am strong. I pulled myself out.”

“Wait until you get a load of the masses these Beatles attract,” Solo said. “All the gymnastics training in the world can’t prepare you for surviving that mob.”

As the group walked toward the front door, still arguing about the merits of the popular band from Liverpool, Illya noticed a flash of purple out the grimy store window. It was a kerchief, tied round the head of a smiling older woman. She tapped on the glass with her walking stick. 

“Thanks for helping me cross the street, ducky,” she called, smiling. “But it’s time to  _ kill _ this story.”

Illya froze. 

The woman raised her cane. 

The windowpane shattered. 

Something that felt like a baseball bat hit Kuryakin in the chest; he went down. 

Napoleon leaned over him, while Gaby drew her gun and fired back at the woman. Illya gasped for air, watching as the old woman raced away, with Teller in pursuit.

“Have you been hit?” Napoleon asked, his hands on Illya’s shoulders. The Russian sat up, smiling grimly. 

“Looks like pocket squares have their uses after all,” he said, gesturing at his breast pocket. The bullet had gone through the pocket square and lodged itself in the silver cigarette case. For the first time, Illya saw that the case had been engraved with an image of the Pantheon. 

“I picked that up in Rome,” Solo said, sounding shaken. “On our first mission together.” 

“Your sentimentality has saved me.” Illya shook his head. 

The two agents shared a quick, frightened laugh. Meanwhile, the fuming Gaby returned from her chase. 

“Getaway car. One with miraculous luck, to find parking at this hour. Are you okay?” she demanded, staring at Illya. 

“Fine, thanks to the makeover.” He handed her the silver box. She examined it, securitizing the embedded bullet. Her hands shook slightly as she handed it back. 

“T.H.R.U.S.H. must be getting pretty desperate… or confident,” Gaby said.

Alerted by the noise, U.N.C.L.E. agents were suddenly everywhere. Illya scoffed at his colleagues who demanded that he seek medical attention, all for what would probably amount to a nasty bruise. 

After Solo gave Waverly a brief account of the incident — and the resident counterfeit tailor patched up the hole in Kuryakin’s suit — the three U.N.C.L.E. agents emerged onto the street.

“Time to break this story wide open, gentlemen,” Gaby said, sliding on her circular sunglasses. 

▽▽▽

**_South Kensington, London, England_ **

Behind its quaint brick walls, the _Echo_ ’s headquarters was a thrumming, smoky hive. Reporters plugged away on typewriters. Secretaries squabbled on phones. Editors chewed cigarettes and barked out questions. Illya sweated through his new, too-formal three-piece suit as the paper’s squashed-face copy chief ushered him around on an exclusive tour of the newsroom. 

“Your old bosses at  _ The Chicago Tribune, The Sun, _ and  _ The New York Times _ had rather nice things to say about you in their letters of recommendation,” he said. “They seem to think you’re some sort of copy  _ prodigy _ .”

Illya shrugged. Job recommendations were the least those news outlets could do after he, Gaby, and Napoleon had saved a press room full of their reporters from a ruthless T.H.R.U.S.H. hit squad in Madrid a year ago. 

“Well, here’s your spot,” the copy chief said, arriving at a vacant typewriter on the edge of the jumble of copy desks. “I’ll introduce you to the staff. Copy, listen up.” The clicking of the typewriter keys subsided. The eyes of the section were upon Illya. “We have a new copy gir—person. Another copy person is joining us today. Why don’t you introduce yourself and state a fun fact uh… Mr. ummm. Kur…”

Illya gave a stiff wave. “Illya Kuryakin. New copy man.” He adjusted his tie, unsure of how to introduce himself. “I will fix mistakes.”

“Okay. Now tell us a funny thing about yourself.” 

Illya blinked. “I play the double bass, the English horn, and the guitar.”

“A one-man-band, interesting. Well, I’m sure you’ll be very happy here.” Satisfied, the copy chief slouched off with a wave. Illya quickly sat down and began organizing his workstation. He could feel the copy girls staring at him. Going undercover as a Russian one-man-band in a three piece suit, with a big scar on his forehead. If his old bosses in the KGB could see him now, they 'd collapse with laughter. And then probably put a bullet in his brain, for good measure.

Illya's neighbor, a woman with hair piled into an inflexible beehive, poked his arm. “Excuse me. Are you … from the Soviet Union?” 

“I live in Fulham.”  Illya tried to loosen his tie again, silently cursing Cowboy and his oppressive capitalist fashions.

He opened up his typewriter and began weaving in a new ribbon. Slowly, slowly… 

A sniffle broke his concentration and he snapped the thing in two. Illya looked up at the woman at the table across from him. She was young, with bright auburn hair, a heart-shaped face, and a pen tucked behind her ear. Her eyes were puffy and red and she stared straight down at the stack of envelopes on her desk. 

Illya looked over at the beehive woman.

“I’m Melissa, by the way,” she said, winking.

“Hello, Melissa. Is she okay?” Illya nodded at the crying woman. 

His new coworker shook her towering head 

“That’s Robin True,” Melissa whispered. “You know Ian Barnes? The reporter that got killed? They were an  _ item _ . Tragic, isn’t it?”

Rubbing her eyes, Robin shuffled off toward the kitchen.

“Tell me more about this,” Illya said. 

Melissa nodded, eager to share her gossip. “Robin’s the executive assistant to Rush — the owner and publisher. Ian Barnes was our top foreign correspondent — he was out of town most of the time. But whenever he was in town, they were inseparable.”

“And their connection… it was romantic in nature?”

“Romantic in nature.” Melissa smiled at the stiff phrasing. “Yes, they were definitely sleeping together. He was always bringing her chocolates and flowers. They acted very cozy with one another — not in front of everyone, of course, but I caught them a few times. She was a bit more practical about her gifts. She always got Rush to furnish him with the latest equipment, cameras, fancy pens, and typewriters. It’s so sad. She’s been a wreck ever since the news broke.”

“That is sad.” Illya nodded. “Does she have any ideas on what happened to him? Did he mention anything worrying him before he left for Hungary?”

“If he did, she probably wouldn’t tell me,” Melissa said, shrugging. “I assume she believes the conventional wisdom that the communists killed him. Or the Soviets put a hit on him. No offense.”

“I’m from Fulham,” Illya lied. 

“Sure, ducky,” Melissa smiled. “Here, if you’re so interested in Ms. True, why don’t I introduce you?”

Illya followed his new coworker into the kitchen. Robin was there, fixing a cup of tea. She reached into the fridge, grabbed a carton, and prepared to pour its contents into the cup.

“Darling, that’s juice, not milk,” Melissa pointed out. “Don’t put that in your tea.” Robin silently returned the juice to the fridge. “I just wanted to introduce the newest member of the copy section. Illya Kuryakin.”

“Nice to meet you,” Robin said, tugging on a strand of her reddish brown hair. 

“I am sorry for your loss,” Illya said. The executive assistant blinked at him. “I’m sure it’s a terrible time for the entire paper.”

“Yes, yes, indeed.” True dabbed her puffy eyes with her handkerchief. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.” 

“It is okay to mourn, and to be angry at the people who did this,” Illya said. 

“That’s just the thing, I have no idea about…. No one knows who killed Mr. Barnes.” Robin picked up her tea and left the room.

“Wow, that was intense,” Melissa said, on the way back to their desks. “Do you want to go off and get tea or something, Russia? Just the two of us?”

“Thank you, but I am engaged.” Illya felt his chest tighten at that lie. He was messing up his cover. His alibi didn’t include a fiancée. He was just so used to being falsely engaged to Gaby; it had just slipped out. “So we may get coffee, but just as friends.”

He began threading the backup ribbon into his typewriter.

“Fair enough,” the beehive woman said, shrugging. “So, what is your betrothed like?”

“She likes cars. And she is perfect.” The typewriter ribbon snapped between his shaking hands. 

Melissa responded by pretending to swoon over her desk. 

▽▽▽

Solo and Teller’s meeting with the editor-in-chief was interrupted almost as soon as it started. Without saying anything, Brian Wright slammed two full shot glasses down on the table in front of the new hires and ran off shouting something about a missing columnist and a rumble between the Metro and Sports sections. 

Napoleon and Gaby picked up their drinks. Solo swirled the liquid in the glass. “Whiskey?” 

“It’s ten in the morning,” Gaby said.

Napoleon squinted at the drink. “I like this guy.” 

Gaby shrugged, clinked glasses with Solo, and downed the burning, amber drink just as Wright trudged back to the office and sunk into his chair.

“Sorry about that. The Sports desk is engaging in a prank war with the other sections and apparently our damned advice columnist hasn’t submitted her work for today and won’t pick up the phone. Not to mention this bloody global leadership summit happening in town this week. Would you believe those bastards kicked out one of our photographers?” His bloodshot eyes snapped to Gaby. “But let’s talk about you two. Ms. Teller. Tell me about yourself.”

“I’m a foreign correspondent, Mr. Wright. I speak German, English, and Russian…” Gaby discreetly pinched Napoleon’s arm to wipe the smarmy look off his face. “Some Russian.” Gaby produced several convincing fake clips from her purse and placed them on Wright’s desk. 

He picked one up and squinted at it. “Last year’s riots in Cyprus? Rhodesia’s declaration of independence? The assassination of Malcolm X?” He tilted his head and handed her back the articles. “You’ve been everywhere.” Satisfied, the editor’s stare honed in on Solo. “You. The photographer with the strange name…”

“I’m Napoleon Solo. My lovely wife and I work closely together. We’re a team.”

“What have you shot?”

“Everything. War zones. Buildings. People. The occasional wedding.”

Gaby smirked at Napoleon, the master of equivocation. He had truly shot up all three of those things over the course of his career. Fortunately, there’d been no fatalities in the case of that wedding party that had the misfortune of scheduling their big day on a Scottish golf course owned by a notorious gunrunner. 

Wright nodded slowly. “I’ll be honest with you. Normally I don’t like taking on newcomers for a big story, but my hands are tied, you see.” He sighed. “My best international correspondent is gone. You’re both hired. And you’ve already got your first assignment. I’ll need you to go to Hungary and figure what the hell happened to poor Ian Barnes.” 

“Do you have any leads?” Gaby asked, pulling out a pen and her reporter’s notebook.

“No.” Wright shook his head. “The whole thing makes zero sense. If the Hungarians — or their friends in Moscow — wanted Ian or their own man dead, I doubt they would have dropped a recently built parking garage on them. There are less expensive ways of killing people.”

“Any information on the explosive used in the killing?” Gaby asked. 

“Reports have been largely inconclusive,” Wright said. 

“Had Barnes received any threats recently?”

“None that I was aware of.”

“What was he interviewing the Hungarian general about?”

“You know… I’m not totally sure. He called me late one night. Told me a source in Budapest had some bombshell news. I asked him to clarify. He just said that he had to book a flight to Hungary.” Wright rocked back and forth, thinking. “He said something weird.”

“Like what?” Gaby asked.

“It’s stupid. I think he was just kidding. Something about… mind control serum? I figured it was just a reference to one of those strange sci-fi stories he was always reading.”

Napoleon and Gaby shared a glance. 

The office door burst open. A sad-faced man and a tight-lipped young woman shuffled into the room.

“What’s wrong, Features?” Brian asked.

“Page 7 isn’t happening today,” the woman said, gloomily.

“We’ve received reports that Aunt Lark has fled the country,” the man said. “Can we have some ads to fill up space?”

“On page 7? Do you think we’re just rolling in advertising revenue? Do you think that we can just ‘fill up’ pages whenever we please? Go find a replacement!” The Features editors slunk out, closely pursued by the furious Wright. 

“People are just dropping like flies around here,” Napoleon said.

Gaby nodded, sipping her whiskey. “Print seems doomed.” 

▽▽▽

Illya sat down, grumbling. Part of his new job consisted of delivering copy to the snide young men that covered cricket and rugby and those other stupid English past-times in the Sports corner. As the newest member of the copy team, that meant enduring catcalls and all sorts of rudeness from the chauvinist pigs. 

“Ignore them, they’re the worst,” Robin said, as he passed her desk. Illya nodded in agreement. 

There was a commotion across the room. A frazzled man had clambered on top of the News desk and was now shouting for everyone to listen to him.

“Hello! Everyone shut up. I need all hands on deck right now.”

“That’s Brian Wright, the editor,” Melissa told Illya. “He’s always on edge, but it’s gotten worse since Ian died.”

“I have terrible news. We just lost our advice columnist...” Awkward laughter spiked through the newsroom. “This is serious, people. We need a replacement to fill up half a page.  _ Today _ . Any volunteers?” No one raised a hand. “Does anyone on this paper have a modicum of common sense at all? Anyone? That’s all it takes to write this column.” Wright glared at a few young smug suited men raising their hands. “No. No one from Sports. Christ. A wicket has more brain cells than the lot of you.” The office was silent. “Listen, all you have to do is respond to letters in a semi-coherent fashion. The only reason we have this thing is because our publisher loves to read about peoples’ sad lives. It’s the easiest thing in the world.” 

Melissa raised her hand. “Illya gives wonderful advice.”

“Excellent! Which one of you girls is Illya?”

Illya stood up, stony faced.

“Oh. Here you go, then.” Wright hopped down, walked over to Illya’s seat, and dropped a bag of letters on his desk. 

“No,” Illya said. “I am a copy man.”

“You can work from home,” Brian said.

Illya’s eyebrows shot up. From here on out, he could continue the mission with Gaby and Solo, rather than getting stuck over a typewriter in this wretched newsroom. “Deal.”

“Good.” Brian took Illya’s hand and held it up, as if he were a champion boxer. “We’ve got our new Aunt Lark.”

▽▽▽

“So, tell me a bit more about the paper,” Solo said, once Brian returned from the agony aunt crisis. He had stayed behind to interrogate the editor-in-chief while Gaby searched the paper archives. “I’m mostly out in the field, so I’m always curious about what it’s like in the pressroom. Seems like an interesting place to be.”

“Interesting. Yes.” Wright started examining pages, largely ignoring the inquisitive new photographer. “Most days, like today, it’s like being in the middle of a slow-moving disaster. Other times, it picks up the pace and things go to hell in an instant.”

Solo decided to switch tactics. “Well, I’m excited to be on board. And I’m sure you’re happy to get some new blood in here. Liven things up a bit. If you don’t mind me saying so, I’ve noticed… bit of a decline in the  _ Echo _ lately.”

The editor, who’d been slicing his pen across the page, finally looked up. “A  _ decline _ ?”

“Yes. Well, the  _ Echo _ has such a legacy for excellent reporting. And… lately… there just seems to be an awful lot of…”

“An awful lot of  _ what _ ?” Brian demanded. 

“You know. Puff pieces. Horoscopes. Aunt Lark advice columns. Don’t get me wrong; those are all fine. But they should never crowd out real, hard hitting coverage of the issues.”

Wright stood up, strode over to the door, and slammed it shut. “Really? Well, you’ve certainly got a funny way of making a first impression.” His face had gone pale. “This is the problem with you pretentious freelancers. You don’t actually know how the business works.” Napoleon sank back in his chair, waiting for the rest of the rant. It didn’t come. Instead, the editor covered his face with his hands and let out what sounded like a drawn out blend of a sigh and a quiet scream. “Christ, I can’t take this anymore.”

“It’s your publisher, isn’t it?” Solo tried. “I hear he did the same thing to _The_ _Chelsea Star._ ”

The editor nodded weakly, before pointing at Napoleon. “Hang on. You’re one of his spies. He sent you here to bait me, didn’t he? What a dirty trick—”

“I’m not here to bait you!” Solo stared at the newspaperman, who promptly collapsed back into his chair. 

“I’m sorry. I sound completely insane,” Brian said.

Napoleon nodded but said nothing.

“I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t even be saying this.” The editor looked about the room, as if someone might be hiding behind one of the chairs or the bookcase. He lowered his voice. “Rush isn’t in this game for the right reasons. Hell, I’m no bleeding heart fool. This paper has to make money in order to survive. But that’s all he cares about. And… it’s more than that.” He looked intently at Solo. “He actively discourages some of our investigative work. Gives all sorts of reasons, the readers aren’t interested, it’s too expensive, or it’s angering his fancy golf friends…. It’s always something. Ian  _ loathed _ him.”

“Maybe he has something to hide,” Napoleon suggested. Brian just stared at the row of awards on his wall and said nothing. 

Just then, the door swung open. A young man with remarkably orange skin sauntered into the room.

“Hello Brian… who’s your friend?” He smiled at the U.N.C.L.E. agent.

“Solo. Napoleon Solo. I’m a photographer.” 

“Thomas Rush,” the man said. “I own this little rag. Welcome on board.”

As he spoke, the man swept his hands out, knocking Brian’s shot glass off his desk. It shattered on the floor. Immediately, the editor grabbed a brush and dustbin from under his desk and sprang over to sweep up the mess. 

“You two seem to have started a bit early.” Rush’s lips curled in a smirk. He was lanky, with a head of floppy, well-greased sand-colored hair. “Just stopping by to check up. How’re things at my favorite daily, Brian?”

“Things are fine,” Wright said.

“Fine? Your tone disagrees with your words. Be honest, Brian! That's important in the news business.”

“Honestly? We’re cash strapped on the editorial side.  _ Damn _ !” Wright sliced his palm open on a stray piece of broken glass.

“You’re bleeding me dry here, Brian,” Rush said, rolling his pale eyes. “I really don’t know what you want me to do.” Solo pretended like he was making a move to leave — he was content to listen to this tense conversation at the door. “No, might as well stay, Solo.” Rush gave his insincere smile. “You can take a picture. Call it ‘intrepid editor stands up to evil businessman.’”

“That’s a bit vague for a caption,” Solo said.

“That’s how he thinks, though,” Rush said, with an exasperated laugh. “That’s how you think, isn’t it, Brian?”

Wright stood up slowly, clutching his bleeding hand. “Rush, we have to inject more funds into editorial. The situation’s been bleak for some time. Now that Ian’s gone, we’re hemorrhaging reporters. We’re spending far too much money on the trivial nonsense. Why do we require a staff of five and an entire page devoted only to horoscopes? Why do we give the advice column so much space?”

“We give the readers what they want.”

“The readers want solid, accurate reporting on important issues! We’ve always had fluffier elements, but this is too much.”

Rush burst out laughing. “Listen to yourself, man! You’re a walking cliché.”

Brian walked to the waste bin in the corner and flung the glass shards in the trash. “You asked me to be honest.” 

A young woman with reddish brown hair ducked her head into the office and murmured something. Her voice barely registered.

“Robin, dear, you need to speak up, or we can’t hear,” Rush simpered. He turned to Solo. “Mr. Solo, meet my secretary. Robin True.”

“Executive assistant,” Robin said, in a slightly louder voice. She looked at Napoleon. “Call for you, Mr. Solo. It’s your brother.”

Solo was an only child, so it had to be Waverly.

“Thank you,” Napoleon said, following her out of the room. Robin had remarkably bright blue eyes, which were now tinged with red. 

“How long have you been Mr. Rush’s executive assistant?” Napoleon asked.

“Oh, just a few months,” she said. She turned and smiled at him. “This is my first job. Mr. Rush hired me straight out of Cambridge. It’s a big opportunity to get to work for such… such a successful person.” 

“I’m sure it is. I hope you’re getting some good experience.”

“Oh, certainly. I mean… sometimes… you know how executives are. Very demanding.” Robin bit her lip. “So, you’re the new photographer, right?” Napoleon nodded. “That’s so interesting. You must get to go to so many fascinating places.”

“I get sent here and there.” He shrugged, smiling. 

“And your wife — she’s the new reporter, right?”

“Ah, yes. She’s great.”

“What’s she like?” Robin smiled at him. 

“Oh, Gaby? She’s swell. She likes cars.”

“That’s so nice. You seem like a real team. Wait!” She froze, and then rushed back to Brian’s office. “Just wait there one moment, please.” The executive assistant returned a moment later, holding a few pens. “You’re new, which means you get a complimentary pen. Take two — one for you and one for your wife.”

“Complimentary pens!” Napoleon twirled one of the writing implements in his fingers. They weren’t too shabby — glossy, black, ballpoint, and inscribed with the word  _ Echo.  _ “Well, this is quite a perk.”

“Glad you like them.” Robin retrieved an identical pen from behind her ear. “I never go around without it. Comes in handy, you know? You never know when you’re going to need to write something down.” She shook her head. “Well, it was nice talking to you, Mr. Solo.”

“Call me Napoleon. Nice talking to you too, Robin,” Solo said. “Listen…” He slipped her his business card, which listed U.N.C.L.E.’s general line. “Give me a call if you ever want a change of pace. If you ever want to go see some interesting places.”

“Thank you, Napoleon,” she said, before hurrying off. Napoleon watched her leave. She could be a good source on Rush, if it came to that. 

Then, the U.N.C.L.E. agent picked up the telephone. 

“Mr. Solo,” Waverly said. “I have some news on this morning’s attacker. The one whose attempt on Illya’s life was stopped only by your excessive taste in fashion.”

“Ah, yes, our elderly friend.” 

“We haven’t been able to find her, but our surveillance cameras got a fairly good look at her. We’ve identified her as a T.H.R.U.S.H. agent. Her name… well, one of her names is Lark Forest. She’s not actually an elderly woman, that’s just one of her many disguises.”

“Interesting,” Solo said.

“The really interesting part of the story is her day job. While she moonlights as one of T.H.R.U.S.H.’s most prolific assassins, Lark Forest is none other that Aunt Lark — the  _ London Echo _ ’s advice columnist.” 

▽▽▽

Of course, the archives were in the building’s damp, creepy basement. Gaby had shot Napoleon a glare when he declined to accompany her — preferring instead to drink hard liquor upstairs with his new fake boss. 

So Teller was stuck doing research alone for hours, flipping through Ian Barnes’s files and stack of clips. She hoped to uncover something, anything that might shed some light on the deadly story he’d been chasing. It was now long past working hours and she still hadn’t found a thing.

A hoarse scream broke her concentration. Gaby shoved the file back in its place and sprinted for the stairs, which led up to the first floor lobby. Her fingers itched toward her gun in her shoulder holster. 

The screaming continued. 

Gaby drew her gun and followed the sound till she got to the lobby. A girl with reddish hair stood in the middle of the space, shaking. Teller hung back in the doorframe.

“She’s going to kill me,” the girl said.

That’s when Gaby saw her — the fake old woman who’d shot Illya early. She had a gun pointed at the girl. 

Gaby didn’t think — she reacted, tackling the shooter. The gun went off and the young woman screamed — for a moment Gaby worried she’d been hit. Much to her relief, the civilian ran off and ducked for cover behind the reception desk. 

Suddenly, Teller was pulled off her adversary. She fell to the ground and looked up. The fake old lady had brought friends — six of them, each with a gun trained on Gaby.

“What are you doing here?” the U.N.C.L.E. agent snapped, trying to sound like the situation was totally under control.

“Killing a story,” the woman responded, bending over and picking up her fallen weapon. 

Gaby glared at her. “Is that the only pun you can think of?” 

Suddenly, the henchman closest to her fell to the ground, clutching his chest. One by one, they fell. The fake old woman sprung out of the line of fire and sprinted out the front door.

Illya stepped out from behind a plastic potted plant in the corner of the lobby. He’d rumpled his dapper suit, slouching to keep himself hidden behind the false vegetation. 

“Are you okay, Teller?” he asked.  She nodded.  “Robin, are you back there?” Illya called. “And are you alright?”

The girl popped up from behind the desk. “ _ No _ ! I’m not alright! Who are you people?”

“We’re freelancers,” Illya said. “Now, call an ambulance. I tried not to shoot to kill.”

“I’m not sure how successful you were, in that regard,” Gaby said, looking down at the heap of bodies.

Something moved over by the shadowy hall leading to the elevators. Gaby picked up one of the fallen T.H.R.U.S.H. agents’ guns. “What was that?”

Somebody laughed.  _ Solo _ . Napoleon stepped into view, hands half raised. 

“I could have shot you!” Gaby lowered the gun. 

“How long have you been standing there?” Illya snapped.

Napoleon shrugged. “Just long enough to help you pick off those T.H.R.U.S.H. fellows.” He gestured at his crisp jacket. “I didn’t want to get too close. You know how I hate to fight in my bespoke suits.” Then, he slipped his gun back into his shoulder holster. “You know what, Gaby? After all that excitement, I think I’m going to take you up on that Beatles offer after all.”

▽▽▽

**_Hammersmith, London, England_ **

Gaby felt a headache brewing as they marched out onto the darkened street. It was like the audience’s screams had morphed into tiny blades that pierced through both of her eardrums and lodged themselves in her brain. 

“Now  _ that’s _ a band,” Napoleon said. “Wow.”

Even Illya was giddy (by his standards), humming “Nowhere Man” and munching Jelly Babies.

“Where’d you get those?” Napoleon asked.

“The air.” Illya flashed a rare grin. “People were throwing them.”

“Such reflexes,” Solo marveled. 

“I love that song about the ‘Nowhere Man,’” Illya said. He looked intensely at Napoleon for a moment. “It is like it was about  _ me _ .”

“I liked all of the songs!” Solo declared. “What did you think, Teller?”

“It was too loud,” Gaby said. “I couldn’t even hear them.” She jammed her hands in her pockets. “Honestly, it was a bit over the top.” Illya and Napoleon gaped at her. “That is to say, they’re a nice enough pop band. But… I don’t get that level of hysteria.”

Illya shook his head. Solo simply gasped and declared that he was going to hail a cab to get away from Gaby’s blasphemous musical opinions. 

“Are you going to run away because I didn’t dig your boy band?” Gaby asked Illya. 

He shook his head and offered Gaby a green Jelly Baby. 

▽▽▽

**_South Kensington, London, England_ **

When Solo slipped back into the office, there was only one person still there, clicking away at her typewriter in the corner.  He quietly approached her desk, making his way through the dim newsroom. “How are you doing, Robin?” 

Startled, she nearly fell out of her chair. “Mr. Solo! What are you doing back at this hour?”

“I just wanted to check on you, to make sure you were okay. I’m sorry — I shouldn’t have been so sneaky about it, considering what happened earlier.”

She let out a tired laugh. “You spies will be the death of me…. Didn’t you tell me that an U.N.C.L.E. contingent would be watching the office and my home this evening?” 

“Yes, I did.”

“Then why did you really come back here?”

“I actually just had a quick question.” Napoleon slid his  _ Echo  _ pen out of his breast pocket. “Is the pen stronger than the sword?” He smiled. “I’m just kidding.” He unscrewed the writing implement and pulled out a thin, red wire. “I wanted to know if you had any idea why our complimentary pens have wires in them?”

Robin blinked, her hand drifting to the pen tucked behind her ear. “I… Rush told me to give them to you… Are they bugs?”

“Ours are, at the very least. It looks like your boss, Rush, might be involved in something rather illegal.”

“It certainly looks that way. Napoleon… do you think he could have had a hand in Ian’s death?” In the dim light, Solo couldn’t tell whether her blue eyes were bright with fear or anger.

“I’m afraid it’s possible. We’re here to find out what happened to Ian, and to make certain that doesn’t happen to anyone else. So don’t ever put your personal safety in jeopardy, but if anything suspicious happens around here, please give us a call. You have my number.”

“Certainly, Mr. Solo.” She shook her head and sighed. “The newspaper business is far more dangerous than I ever imagined.” 


	3. The Freelance Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby frets over a rental car. Illya adjusts to his role as agony aunt. Napoleon gives new meaning to the world freelancer.

**_December 10, 1965_ **

**_Budapest Ferihegy International Airport, Hungary_ **

“There’s something wrong with that car,” Gaby said. They were standing in the middle of a relatively deserted parking lot on the outskirts of Budapest’s main airport. The car in question — a battered blue sedan, which fit Waverly’s description of their rental — just looked  _ wrong _ to Gaby. It hung too close to the ground, as if weighted down with something. 

“What are you talking about?” Solo asked. “It’s just a car.”

“It’s been rigged,” Gaby said. "With a big old car bomb."

“You can’t be serious,” Napoleon said. 

“Listen to her, Cowboy,” Illya warned. 

“You’re both paranoid,” the American said. “I want proof.”

Illya ushered his friends away from the car, till they were all at a safe distance. Then he drew his gun, popped on a silencer, and fired a few shots at the vehicle.

The windows shattered. Nothing dramatic happened. 

Napoleon doubled over laughing. “Stop, before someone calls the AVH.”

“Hungary’s AVH was dismantled nearly a decade ago,” Illya said, somewhat testily. 

“Shoot the engine,” Gaby said. 

"It's a rental!" Solo yelled, but Illya complied regardless. A fireball engulfed the car. The hood went flying sky high. It crashed to the ground a few feet away. Gaby stared at the flames licking at the edges of the metal, and then smiled at Solo.

"Welcome to Hungary!" he said, cheerily. “I guess we’re walking."

▽▽▽

The trio strolled up the carpeted stairs of Nagybácsi’s house. The building was somewhat break-in-proof — the man had been a general, after all — but they’d managed to enter by smashing through a dingy basement window. The home was pleasantly furnished in hues of patriotic red and green. 

Napoleon decided to check Nagybácsi’s bedroom, while Illya and Gaby searched his adjacent office. 

Gaby found the room surprisingly airy, for a bureaucratic general’s office, at least. Light poured into the room from a wide window. The desk was rather sleek and compact. All sorts of literature lined the walls, from books on astronomy to biographies of famous Roman generals.

Illya poked around the shelves, while Gaby searched the desk.

After a moment, she slapped several letters on the table.

“What’ve you got?” Illya asked.

“Paper with a T.H.R.U.S.H. masthead.”

“ _ What _ ?”

“I know. Napoleon will be furious. He’s been trying to get Waverly to buy us fancy paper for a while.”

“So the general was a T.H.R.U.S.H. agent?”

“Looks like it. This desk looks like someone went through it. There aren’t any incriminating T.H.R.U.S.H. documents. But there are odds and ends.” She pulled open a new drawer. “Hm. Letters from the Dean of Cambridge? Thanking the general for his donation. Looks like he was a big contributor.”

“Cambridge?” Illya frowned. “Odd. His file says he went to Oxford.”

“You’re right.” Gaby raised her eyebrows. “Well… looks like his kid went to Cambridge.”

“Kid? He didn’t have children.”

“This letter begs to differ. The dean had invited him to join some sort of parental donation group, since he’d contributed so much money. He apparently declined… the dean writes ‘given the nature of your relationship, we can assure you that we will be discrete.’ He must’ve not wanted anyone to know about it.”

“A secret child. Does that letter include a name?”

Gaby shook her head. “No, but it mentions some sort of media program. The kid must’ve studied journalism.”

“Impractical,” Illya said.

“Indeed. But forget that, I’ve found something even more interesting.”

Illya smiled. “You’re good.”

“I know.” Gaby grinned back. “Here’s a letter from Ian Barnes, the  _ Echo  _ correspondent.” She took a moment to read the piece of paper. “It’s written in English. It sounds like the general believed he was in danger. He wanted Barnes to help him defect to the West.”

“Why Barnes, though?” Illya asked.

“Hmm. It looks like they’d had some contact during WWII. Nagybácsi was a partisan fighter in Hungry against the Nazis — Barnes had a few clips in which he interviewed him after the war was won. I guess he trusted him. This letter is a paranoid ramble. Nagybácsi believed he was being tailed.” Gaby’s eyes widened. “He also believed that the  _ Echo _ itself had been infiltrated by some nefarious organization.”

“T.H.R.U.S.H.?”

“Perhaps!” Gaby set down the letter. “Barnes mentions receiving a big box of evidence from the general. Where was he stationed?”

“Berlin,” Illya said. 

Just then, gunshots erupted through the quiet home. Teller and Kuryakin hit the deck beneath the desk. 

“I think we have company!” Solo called from the next room. “And I think they have a machine gun. A M60 machine gun, if I’m not mistaken.” He appeared in the doorway between the bedroom and the office, holding a medieval style lance. “Did I ever tell you that I threw the javelin in college?”

“Where’d you get that thing?” Illya asked.

“The bedroom. Looks like Nagybácsi was a bit of a medievalist.”

“You’re going to fight them with that?” Illya asked, quietly.

“We are freelancers, aren’t we?” Napoleon smiled. “The term actually comes from medieval mercenaries. Their lances weren’t sworn to any particular lord. Hence, freelancers.” He waved the weapon around. “You two should jump out the window now.” 

Napoleon hurried toward the stairs. Illya and Gaby ran for one of the windows. Illya pried it open. Gaby slid onto the sill. She sat there for a second, looking at the rather faraway ground below. Then she pushed herself off the ledge.

The U.N.C.L.E. agent landed on her feet, lost her balance, and fell hard on her stomach. She couldn’t move, for a second. The wind had been knocked clear out of her. Then she felt arms lifting her up. It was Illya, scooping her up, his face stern with concentration. He carried her as he ran. 

“Put me down,” she said, once they’d reached the end of the block. Illya set her down, gently. “Thank you.” 

He nodded and they began to run together. They stopped in a small, barren park to wait for Napoleon. After a moment, the former CIA agent caught up with them.

“How many people did you impale?” Gaby asked.

“Impale? With the lance? None. I just used that thing to block the door.” Napoleon smiled. “He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day."

▽▽▽

**_Hotel Gellért, Budapest, Hungary_ **

Illya carefully unfolded the last letter. He was almost done with the whole entire pile. He’d mail his copy to the  _ Echo _ tomorrow, on the way to the airport. They were catching a flight to Paris early in the morning. 

_ Dear Aunt Lark, _

_ I love my husband. I know he loves me. But we’re stuck in a rut. It’s so easy to take people for granted. Do you have any advice on how to better appreciate the ones you love on a daily basis? _

_ Sad in Surrey  _

Illya didn’t know why he was taking his cover so seriously. He supposed that giving clichéd advice was actually quite soothing for him. He mulled over the last letter and rolled the pen around on the desk until the words came to him. Then he began to write.

_ Dear Sad, _

_ It helps to keep perspective. Remember that life is fragile. Everything can be taken from you in an instance. Hold onto the ones you love. _

_ Aunt Lark _

He put his pen down and looked across the room. Solo had volunteered to take the foldout cot. Gaby was sleeping on the other bed. Illya watched her for a moment, her brown hair splayed like a fan on the pillow, her small form curled up beneath the blankets.

_ Hold onto the ones you love. _

He folded up his stupid, trite response and went to bed. 


	4. The Classifieds Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The U.N.C.L.E. agents visit their employer's shabby Paris bureau. Gaby sets Illya straight with the help of some Ian Fleming.

**_December 11, 1965_ **

**_16_ _th_ _Arrondissement, Paris, France_ **

Napoleon took off his sunglasses to ogle the towering Beaux Arts marvel that housed the  _ Echo _ ’s Paris bureau.

“You realize you’re making eyes at a building?” Illya grumbled, marching through the glass front door.

“It’s not a building, it’s a work of art,” Napoleon said, as they walked across the bright, tiled lobby toward the elevator. He smirked. “I forget — you probably prefer the constructivist style.”

“Tell me, why does a newspaper need a building like this?” Illya asked, changing the subject. “They’re just going to be sitting in a dingy office on their typewriters and phones all day. How do they afford it?”

“Am I the only one actually reading Waverly’s reports?” Gaby asked, punching the elevator buttons. “They afforded the rent by firing half their staff. They’ve let go of nearly ninety percent of their foreign correspondents in the last few weeks. Barnes was one of their last big names. There’s no more Berlin office — all of the files from the other European bureaus have been sent here to Paris. It’s all part of the newspaper’s push to focus less on international affairs, more on London celebrity gossip. Needless to say, their circulation is on the rise.” 

“Style over substance,” Napoleon mused, craning his neck to see his reflection in the elevator’s mirrored ceiling. “Speaking of Waverly, here you go.” He handed his two comrades fancy silver pens. “These came in the express mail.”

“He knows we’re not really writers, right?” Teller asked. 

Napoleon lifted the pen to his lips. “I know.”

Much to Gaby’s surprise, a metallic, slightly garbled version of the American’s voice echoed out of the tip of her pen.

“New communicators,” he said, hooking the pen into his breast pocket. “Also, the only writing implement I’ll ever wear in my jacket. No risk of ink stains.”

They disembarked on the fourth floor, which was decked in swirling green carpets, ornate statues, and doors with company names glinting and glossy on the frosted window panes. Illya, Gaby, and Napoleon split up, scrutinizing each office.

“So, Peril.” Napoleon clapped his friend on the back, watching Gaby flit from the door to door across the hall. “Paris. Ville de l'amour. What’re you going to do about it?” 

“Are you pressuring me into taking you on date?” Illya asked, without looking up from the door.

Napoleon shrugged. “Well, if you’re not planning on taking Gaby out…”

Illya glowered at Solo. “Do you think this is some sort of joke? Some sort of alcohol, sex, and fancy architecture romp? We have a job to do.”

“You need to loosen up.”

“You need to wake up and realize that this isn’t one of your ridiculous Ian Fleming books.”

“That’s brilliant!” Napoleon pulled a thin paperback from his jacket pocket and passed it to the former KGB agent. “Just hand this to Gaby. It’s an effortless pick up line. You don’t even have to say anything.” Illya glared at the title, hovering over a pulpy illustration of a gun and a rose:  _ From Russia With Love.  _ “You are the pistol, she is the flower.”

“I think I’ve found it,” Gaby called, from down the hallway. 

Glaring at one another, Illya and Napoleon hustled over to find her pointing at a scrap of newsprint — with the word  _ Echo _ scrawled on it — taped to a door. Gaby grasped the doorknob and started to open it 

“Close the door, for the last time, this isn’t the broom closet!  _ Ferme la porte _ !” The voice was familiar. Gaby pushed the door all the way open, to reveal Brian Wright hunched over a tiny desk, surrounded by swaying stacks of files.

“You? What’re you doing here?” Wright demanded.

“Just checking in,” Gaby said. “What’re  _ you _ doing here? Shouldn’t you be in London?” 

Wright seemed to shrink slightly behind his typewriter. “I have been… reassigned. I am now the Paris bureau chief…” A small, crumbling tile fell from the ceiling and broke apart on the desk. “I’m what’s left of the Paris bureau, really.” 

“What happened?” Kuryakin asked.

“Pardon me, but I’d rather not go into my professional tribulations with a bunch of random freelancers I only hired a few days ago!” He gaped at Illya. “What the hell are  _ you _ doing here? Aren’t you the bloody advice columnist?”

“I gain wisdom through travel,” Illya responded, coolly. 

Wright pointed at Napoleon. “And why are you all carrying guns? I don’t… Oh God. You’re not actually journalists, are you?” The three U.N.C.L.E. agents shook their heads. “That’s perfect. So  _ that _ story’s definitely not getting done by deadline.”

Napoleon flashed his triangular badge. “We work for U.N.C.L.E.”

“Am I supposed to know what that means? Uncle? That doesn’t sound like a real thing. And that’s just a yellow triangle.”

“We are a team of international investigators, that’s all you need to know,” Gaby said. “We need to ask you a few questions about your boss.”

“Rush? Why? What’s he done?”

“We’re trying to figure that out ourselves,” Solo said. “Please hand over any files you have regarding Ian Barnes. And tell us everything you know about Rush.”

Wright let out a bitter laugh. “Ah, so this is what it’s all about, then. This is the best you can do? A bunch of fake secret agents bang down my door to ask me to complain about my boss? He hired you to do this. Classic Rush. Well, I’m not falling for it.”

“Okay, I guess we’ll just have to detain you until we’re done searching,” Illya said, taking a menacing step forward.

The demoted editor shot out of his seat. “You can’t do that! Freedom of the press!” Then he sat back down, looking utterly exhausted. “You know what? Never mind. Do whatever you want. The stuff from Berlin’s around and underneath my desk… I keep meaning to sort through it.”

“I’ll look through the Berlin files,” Gaby said. “Illya, you went to Cambridge.” 

Illya raised his eyebrows. “Only briefly.”

Napoleon clapped his hands together and winked at Teller. “You know about the Quantum Mechanics doctorate program? We’ve certainly been going deep into Mr. Kuryakin’s file, haven’t we Gaby?”

Gaby ignored him. “Illya, since you’re used to hobnobbing with those academics, why don’t you find a phone and see if you can trick Cambridge into disclosing some information about their mysterious student?” Illya nodded and walked off. “Solo—”

“I’m going to take a closer look at the typos in the latest edition of the  _ Echo _ !” Napoleon said, snatching a paper off Wright’s desk before dashing off.

“Yeah, knock yourself out.” Gaby rolled her brown eyes and began digging through a series of slightly decaying boxes that had all been labeled “Berlin.” She scanned each piece of paper and folded the pertinent ones into her purse. 

About half an hour later, Gaby had finished her search.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” Brian asked, without looking up from his typewriter. 

“Possibly,” Gaby said, crouching down behind the desk to tie up a loose shoelace.

Just then, the door burst open and a group of six people shoved their way into the cramped office. Gaby froze. She could see the intruders through the gaps in the pile of papers, but they didn’t seem to notice her.

“You all need to get out of here right now,” Brian said, continuing to type furiously. “We are way over occupancy right now. Building manager’s a stickler for that.” Gaby clicked her communicator on so her two fellow agents would know not to stumble in on the situation. 

“Yeah. That’s the least of your problems.” One member of the group was Lark Forest, the lady who shot Illya. The woman unwrapped the purple kerchief, removed a grey wig, and shook out her pale blonde bob. 

“Wait!” Wright pointed at the woman. “I recognize your voice, from all those phone calls. You’re Aunt Lark!” 

“That was my byline, yeah,” Lark said. “Which way did those U.N.C.L.E. agents go?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. I know for a fact that they got off on this floor.” Lark grabbed Wright by the collar and shoved him against the wall. “I’ll be honest. I’m going to kill you no matter what. You can tell me where they went and it will be quick. Or you can act like an idiot. I’ll make it brutal, messy, and painful. So where are they?”

“I should’ve known you were bad news,” Brian said. “You’re a terrible writer. So many adjectives. Always telling, never showing.”

“This is your last chance or your eyeballs will be skewered by my knife,” Lark said, flicking out a blade and holding it against the editor’s neck. 

“And who could forget your fondness of the passive voice?” 

“Okay. Fine.” Lark pressed the blade deeper, till blood began to run down Brian’s shirt. “Forget the eyeballs. We’ll get to those later. I’m going to make your death last for hours.”

At that, Gaby flipped Brian’s desk over; it fell and pinned two of the T.H.R.U.S.H operatives. Lark released Wright, who slumped to the ground. 

The U.N.C.L.E. agent felled another henchman by hitting him in the face with her currently empty pistol. Then she reached down, grabbed the demoted editor by the arm, and dragged him into the hallway.

“We need to run,” she said. 

“There’s a staircase at the end of the hall!” he said, clutching his bleeding neck. They managed to descend two flights before gunshots began ringing in the humid, gray space. 

“Just keep moving,” Gaby snapped, when Wright seemed to fade just before they reached the lobby. “Where can we hide?”

“There’s a café in the back,” he suggested. She nodded and followed him. The place clearly wasn’t a local hotspot — just a generic coffee shop, there for the convenience of the swarm of tourists that passed through the building every day. Gaby steered Brian to an empty table. 

“Are we just going to sit here and wait for them to find us?” he asked. The U.N.C.L.E. agent shook her head and pulled him under the table. They sat there for a moment, breathing heavily and staring at the fluttering white tablecloth.

Gaby turned on her communicator. “Napoleon and Illya, I’d advise you not to go back to the office. I think you’ll find it a bit crowded at the moment.” She turned back to the editor. “Tell me more about Rush.” 

“Do you think he’s the one trying to kill us?”

“I don’t know. There’s something very strange going on at the paper. The fact that your old agony aunt just tried to kill you should indicate that much.”

The deposed editor sighed. “Listen, I don’t like the man. He came in and completely overhauled our ads department. Which is fine, I mean, he  _ is _ a businessman. But then, just last month, he forced me to sack the entire Sports section and bring in a team of the most obnoxious lads, all straight out of university. They could barely write a sentence, let alone staff an entire section. He gave no reason for it. I assumed it was some sort of nepotistic nonsense.”

“Does Rush have any criminal ties? Any bizarre family history?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He’s an orphan — at least, that’s what he tells everyone. But his attempts to turn us into a cheap tabloid are nothing short of criminal, if you ask me. I mean our circulation is slightly up, but at what cost?” Wright tilted his head, thinking. “Other than that, no. I can’t think of anything particularly sinister. Listen. I shouldn’t say this, but I’d love to see that man taken down a peg after what he’s done to my — I mean…  _ the _ newspaper.” Brian shrugged. “But I don’t know what to tell you. He’s clean from what I understand.” 

Suddenly, two pairs of shoes appeared at each end of the table. Porcelain and silverware clinked above.

“I say, Peril, don’t you think it’s most unfitting for an U.N.C.L.E. agent to hide underneath a table, like, say, a person who’s just committed a most ill-thought-out dine-and-dash.”

“Yes.”

“You two.” Gaby crawled from her sanctuary and pulled up a chair between her colleagues. 

“Can I go to a hospital?” the editor called from underneath the table.

“Stay under there, Wright,” she said. The restaurant only seemed to have paper napkins, so she flipped out her Swiss army knife and cut off a piece of the tablecloth. Gaby handed it down to him. “Put this on your neck.”

“Okay.”

Napoleon and Illya stared at her, awaiting an explanation. “While you two were off sightseeing, Illya’s elderly friend burst in with a few goons. Definitely T.H.R.U.S.H.”

“Did you get the Berlin files?” Napoleon asked.

Gaby raised her eyebrows and held up her purse. “Of course I did. Should we do this here?”

Napoleon nodded. Gaby fanned the papers out on the table. 

“These are the documents that caught my attention. Letters from Nagybácsi telling Barnes that he believed the  _ Echo _ had been infiltrated by a nefarious global organization — T.H.R.U.S.H.”

“But why couldn’t he have just told him that on the phone?” Illya asked.

“He wasn’t meeting Barnes to just talk to him,” Gaby said, holding up one of the letters. “According to these, the general was definitely a former member of T.H.R.U.S.H. We all know that the survival rate of that demographic is alarmingly low. He was paranoid.”

“So why take the risk and invite Barnes to meet with him?” Solo asked.

“He claims to be responsible for guarding some secret serum — a formula and some equipment that the Soviet Union had confiscated from T.H.R.U.S.H. agents a few months ago. They were storing it in Hungary. Nagybácsi’s department was tasked with guarding it, but the Soviets were ordering Hungary to transfer it elsewhere. The general seemed to think that it wasn’t safe anywhere, that T.H.R.U.S.H. might get their hands on it again. He was especially worried about the upcoming transfer.”

“So he decided to go public,” Napoleon said.

“It’s more than that. He seemed to really think that the  _ Echo  _ was somehow involved. It was almost like he was trying to warn Barnes.”

“What kind of serum are we talking about?” Illya asked.

“Doesn’t say. Apparently, the formula still isn’t quite ready. Weirdly enough, the general claims to have helped work on earlier prototypes back in his T.H.R.U.S.H. days. He seemed to think that his old friends were getting close to perfecting the thing and only needed to steal back the serum to finally complete it.’”

“Sounds to me like Rush is Nagybácsi’s son,” Solo said. “And a T.H.R.U.S.H. agent.” 

“That’s my theory too. The general frequently mentions some ‘classifieds information’ that he wants to reveal to Barnes.” Gaby said. “I don’t know why he designates it as classified — all of this seems pretty classified.”

Napoleon raised his eyebrows. “Nice find, Teller. Kuryakin, what’ve you got?”

The Russian shrugged. “Those Cambridge administrators didn’t give me any information about Nagybácsi’s child. Although it sounds like we’re pretty sure it’s Rush at this point.” 

“Indeed.” Napoleon tossed the latest issue of the  _ Echo _ on the table. The front page was splashed with a photo of some bleary-eyed diplomats and the headline “The St James Diplomacy Blues,” with some fluffy, slightly jingoistic pieces on the ongoing global leadership conference in London. “Behold.” 

Illya and Gaby shared a glance as their friend flipped through the paper. 

“Trying to keep us informed on current events, Solo?” Gaby asked.

“Nope. We’re not looking at the articles.” Napoleon turned to the classified ads. “We’re looking for a new job.” He pointed to two adjacent ads in particular. “My eyes have been twitching at these mistakes for some time.”

The ads in question read: 

**O’Leary’s Pub**

**“Farn Out Fish and Chops”**

**65 Watling Street, Kilburn**

**Bicycle for sale —contoct for Joe more innformation**

He took out a blue pencil — swiped from the  _ Echo _ ’s upstairs office. “They clearly mean to say ‘far out fish and chips’ and then of course the bike ad has atrocious spelling.” He circled all of the errors. “But, look at what happens when you take out all the errant letters.” He wrote them all out on the side of the page.

“Magic,” Gaby said, rolling her eyes. 

“No. It spells out N-O-O-N.” Napoleon said. 

“It’s a time,” Illya said.

“It has to be. Why else wouldn’t the ads department correct these?” Napoleon asked. “Let’s talk about this paper for a minute: We have a homicidal agony aunt, a mysterious owner whose name literally spells out T.H.R.U.S.H., and now an ads team with a penchant for seemingly deliberate errors? The  _ Echo _ has been infiltrated. I mean, the ads entire department must be in on this little project. This isn’t a handful of individual T.H.R.U.S.H. ads. This requires the entire page to work and escape detection.”

“This is what the general meant by ‘classifieds,’” Gaby said. “That makes sense now. T.H.R.U.S.H. has been using the  _ Echo _ to communicate. The newspaper’s it’s own personal assignments bulletin. Whatever they’re working on must be big — or divisive within T.H.R.U.S.H. itself. Otherwise, why would they go to so much trouble? What does the entire message say, Napoleon?” 

“This is what you get when you decode the entire classifieds section.” Solo held up a piece of paper with “Noon Lourdes Thirteen Dec Trogon” written on it.

“Dec must be December. And a trogon is a bird, isn’t it?” Illya asked.

“They do love their bird jargon,” Solo said, smiling. “It’s a Cuban bird.”

Gaby frowned. “But what about Lourdes? Isn’t that in France?” 

“It’s also the name of a Russian station in Cuba,” Illya said. 

“That must be where the Soviets are taking the serum,” Gaby said.

“T.H.R.U.S.H. may be plotting to steal the formula from the Lourdes on December 13,” Napoleon said. “I think it’s worth checking.”

“Can I come out from under the table now?” Wright asked, weakly.

“Yes. Sorry about that, chief,” Solo said, as Brian emerged from his hiding spot.

“I’m not the chief anymore, I’m afraid.” The demoted editor looked pale from blood loss — and possibly the shock of learning how far his beloved paper had fallen.

“You should go back to London and lay low for a while,” Illya advised.

“I’m going back to London and I’m going to kill Rush,” Wright declared. “I’ve worked for the  _ Echo _ for fifteen years. I’ve never seen anything like this. That bastard’s broken my newspaper.”

“Leave the homicide to us, friend.” Napoleon escorted Wright outside, to catch a cab for the airport.

That left Teller and Kuryakin alone, sitting in silence. Illya slipped Solo’s book out of his jacket and began to read, attempting to appear uninterested and nonchalant. 

“What are you reading, Illya?” Gaby teased. “Tolstoy? Dostoevsky? Chekov?”

“No. Just some Western garbage.” He handed her the spy novel and shrugged. 

She laughed, taking the book, flipping through the pages. “Did Napoleon give you this?”

Illya had to crack a smile, seeing her laugh. “Of course.”

“He thinks of himself as a classy American Bond.”

“Yes.”

“I guess that makes us the villains from behind the Iron Curtain.”

Illya shrugged, recalling Napoleon’s pep talk. “He said that I was the gun. You are the rose.” 

Gaby shook her head. “Illya. This novel is about the romance between a hardened agent working for Britain and a quiet, blonde Soviet intelligence officer. _You_ are the rose.” Then she tapped him on the nose with the paperback and walked off to call Waverly. 


	5. The Embargoed Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya finds his credibility as a KGB called into question during a disastrous visit to a Soviet base in Cuba.

**_December 13, 1965_ **

**_Lourdes SIGINT Station_ **

**_Somewhere Near Havana, Cuba_ **

The cab driver was reluctant to get too close to the Soviet station, so Illya, Gaby, and Napoleon ended up trudging about half a mile to the checkpoint. Dust whipped up around them as they walked — the dry season had begun. The day was warm and overwhelmingly blue.

“What’s the plan, again?” Solo asked. He’d sampled one too many miniature bottles of rum at the airport, and was apparently paying for it, judging from his oversized sunglasses and unsteady gait.

“Just let me do all the talking,” Illya said. “I’m KGB.” Technically, this wasn’t true anymore. Illya had effectively resigned from the Soviet spy organization after signing on for U.N.C.L.E. But the grinding, brutal bureaucracy being what it was, there was a chance he’d still show up on the KGB roster. “I already put the word in with some former handlers who owe me a favor.”

Encircled by both the jungle and a tall metal fence, the Lourdes station looked as robust and orderly as any generic military camp. Large satellites dishes rose from some of the structures. Together, the group of three ambled up to the gates. Two Russian soldiers stood there, guarding the entrance to the base.

“Papers,” one of the soldiers demanded.

“We’ve got an appointment,” Illya said in Russian, unfolding and flashing his worn KGB documents. “The name’s Kuryakin.”

“Ah, yes. Your old supervisor called us just an hour ago. But I’ll need papers from all three of you, if I’m going to let any of you in.”

“I’ve been able to bring a plus one or two in the past,” Illya snapped. 

“Sir, this is a military base, not a wedding.” The soldier blinked at them. “Why would your friends not bring papers to a SIGINT station?”

“That’s classified,” Gaby tried. 

"German?" the soldier scoffed. 

"East German," Illya said quickly.

"And what's he? American?" the soldier joked, gesturing at Napoleon. The former CIA spy beamed stupidly and said nothing. “Well? Can’t your friend speak for himself?”

“No,” Illya said. 

“Come to think of it, he looks like an American.”

“No, he just _looks_ very stupid and obnoxious,” Illya said, giving Napoleon a friendly clap on the back. "In reality, he is quite shy."

“Well, I’m going to need to see papers from all three of you, regardless of his personality,” the guard snapped. 

An alarm blared over the speakers.

“Sounds like you have bigger problems on your hands,” Gaby said. 

There was a rumble from deeper in the compound. Then, a massive tank lurched into view and began rolling toward the fence. A group of soldiers ran after the vehicle, firing bullets at the hulking fortress on wheels. 

The guard blinked at the scene. “This hasn’t ever happened before,” he said, before taking aim at the tank. The shooting did nothing to deter the massive vehicle, which blasted a giant hole in the fence as it continued to roll forward. 

Guns drawn, Gaby and Solo rushed after the giant tank. 

“What is going on here?” Illya growled, grabbing the guard by the collar. “Tell me or I will throw you beneath that tank’s treads.”

“I—I… they must be stealing the formula!” the guard said. 

“What formula?”

“Above my pay grade, comrade!” the guard snapped. Unsatisfied, Illya began dragging the man toward the barreling tank. “Hey, listen… I’m just putting making an educated guess, here. That’s  _ our _ tank. Looks like it’s been hijacked. We just got shipped something big last night. It was supposed be a secret. Moscow apparently wanted it moved here because they were afraid it wasn’t safe back in the USSR or in Hungary or wherever it came from… There are rumors… Some of the men say it’s some sort of mind control serum.”

Illya let go of the guard, who ran off toward the safety of the base. The tank cranked its barrel toward Illya, who managed to dive out of the way just before the ground that he’d previously been standing upon exploded. Dazed and showered in dirt, he lay on the ground for a moment, until Solo ran over and pulled him up.

“For once, it looks like T.H.R.U.S.H. came to our rescue,” Napoleon said. “It would appear that your clout in the KGB has just about evaporated, Peril.”

Illya rolled his eyes and repeated what the guard had told him. Solo nodded and watched the tank stop and begin to blast wildly at the fort. 

“I think we should cut our losses here,” Solo said. 

“Smart Cowboy,” Illya said, patting his friend on the shoulder. He still felt a bit dizzy. “Where’s Gaby?” 

He saw her as soon as he asked — her swirly turquoise frock was hard to miss amidst the flames and smoke. She was running toward them.

“I’m out of ammo,” she said, waving her pistol. 

“Let’s go,” Solo said. “We get back to the main road and hitchhike back to the airport. We need to get back to London and regroup.”

Together, the U.N.C.L.E. agents began to jog down the road.

“We should probably pick up the pace,” Gaby said, after a moment. Her voice sounded tense. 

“Why?” Illya asked. 

“Why do you think?” she asked, beginning to sprint. Illya turned his head. The tank had abandoned the base altogether. It was now barreling towards them. Much to Kuryakin’s surprise, Napoleon shed his expensive jacket as he ran.

“Suit’s ruined anyway,” the American muttered, before rushing after Teller. 

Illya fixed his eyes on the horizon and picked up his speed. As he stared, a small orange dot seemed to form in the distance. Then, it began to grow. It looked like a little car.

“What is that?” Gaby asked. Illya and Napoleon didn’t answer; they just watched the tiny vehicle buzz toward them. When it swerved to a halt, they saw that the driver was none other than their boss.

“Get in, I suppose,” Waverly said. “I mean, it would certainly be an advisable course of action… if you hope to survive in this situation.” 

Wordlessly, the group piled in. Gaby sat in the front with Waverly. Napoleon and Illya crammed themselves in the back. They rode for some time in silence. 

“A dune buggy?” Napoleon asked, finally. 

“Oh sorry, were you expecting an Aston Martin, Solo?” Waverly rolled his eyes. “It was all I could get on an  _ exceptionally _ short notice.”

“Any way you can rewire this thing to go faster, Teller?” Napoleon asked.

In response, Gaby tilted down her large sunglasses and gave him a look. She turned to Waverly. “How did you know where to find us?” 

“It’s my job to know.” Waverly abruptly swerved the dune buggy off the road. They continued to ride on a path that ran parallel to a wide, blue creek. “My brief attempt to vacation in Jamaica was cut short when I received word of an armada of T.H.R.U.S.H. forces converging on this base.”

“You do care!” Napoleon said.

“I do. Can’t let my top three agents get snuffed out in one fell swoop and all that, can I?”

“Lovely sentiment,” Illya said. “May I remind everyone that we’ve got a tank trailing us?” The monster of a vehicle seemed to rip up the road as it moved, flinging clouds of dirt and sand in the air. 

“Fine, fine,” Waverly said. “I’ll keep my eyes on the road.

Illya leaned over, watching the trail ahead. The dusty path seemed to stop at the blue horizon. As they drew closer, Illya saw that this was because they were about to go over a steep rock face. 

“There is no road,” Illya told Waverly. “We’re about to go over a cliff.”

“A waterfall, in fact,” Waverly said.

“Does this buggy float?” Illya asked.

“Alas. Probably not.”

“Fly?” Gaby tried. 

“Not as far as I’m aware,” Waverly said. 

“Go underwater — like a submarine?” Napoleon asked. 

“Submarine? It’s just a commonplace dune buggy, Solo. You three greatly overestimate U.N.C.L.E.’s equipment budget.” Waverly grinned as they neared the cliff. “Get ready to jump out and hold your breath! Best to not fight the current— there’ll be an U.N.C.L.E. seaplane waiting for us at the mouth of the river.”  Waverly plucked his glasses off his face and tucked them into the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt for safekeeping. “We’ll head to Jamaica from there.” 

The occupants of the buggy leapt out as it pitched off the ledge. The four plunged into the churning white water. Illya was the first to come up for air, followed shortly by Waverly and Napoleon. He finally relaxed when Gaby surfaced beside him.

“Are you alright?” he asked her. There were droplets in her eyelashes.

“Yes.” Beneath the surface of the water, she reached out to him. He took her hand and didn’t let go as they drifted out of the lagoon, into the river. They didn’t let go of one another until he’d helped her up the ladder of the seaplane, which bobbed where the tributary met the sea. 


	6. The Spin Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bazooka-wielding fiend interrupts Napoleon's matchmaking machinations. Illya and Gaby find themselves dancing for their lives.

**_December 15, 1965_ **

**_Belgravia, London, England_ **

Napoleon rode up front with the cab driver, allowing Gaby and Illya to sit together in the back. Teller stared out the window at the gray London day and snapped an occasional picture with Solo's  _ Echo _ -issued camera, while Kuryakin read  _ From Russia With Love _ . Napoleon cursed himself for lending his friend that book — it was proving to be too much of a distraction.  To get the flirtation flowing, he decided that borrowing the driver’s copy of the  _ Echo _ and reading some of the newspaper funnies aloud might encourage romance. His two friends could bond over laughter — or mutual aggravation, at the very least. 

He never made it to the comics section. There, splashed across page one, was a picture of a debonair fellow in an impeccable suit, flanked by a tall man and a short girl. They all appeared to be walking through the lobby of the  _ Echo _ ’s building. It took Solo a moment to realize that he, Illya, and Gaby were the people in the picture. 

“EXPLOSIVE EVIDENCE: FOREIGN SPIES BEHIND MURDER OF  _ ECHO _ JOURNALIST!” the headline screamed. 

Napoleon blinked in surprise, before handing the paper back to Gaby. “Looks like the paparazzi got us.”

“Wonderful,” Gaby said.

Napoleon noticed that the cab had slowed down to a crawl. He turned to protest, but the cabbie was already halfway out the door.

“Sorry, gov, I don’t drive murderers,” the driver shouted as he ran away. 

“Don’t believe everything you read!” Solo called after him. Then he slid into the driver’s seat. “Where to, folks?”

“Let’s just get to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters as quickly as possible,” Illya said.

Napoleon squinted. “That might be easier said than done.” Standing in the middle of the road ahead of them was the Agony Aunt, surrounded by a squadron of heavily armed T.H.R.U.S.H. agents on motorcycles. She was holding a bazooka. 

“Time to kill  _ this _ story!” she called out.

“Why does she always say this?” Illya asked.

“I feel like she could mix it up a bit, in terms of menacing media idioms,” Gaby said. 

“Well, we could suggest some new catchphrases for her, or we could get out of this car as quickly as possible,” Napoleon said. The group of agents opted for the latter course of action. Solo, Kuryakin, and Teller flung themselves from the cab and began to run away just the Agony Aunt fired her weapon. 

Napoleon had only just ducked behind a parked car when the missile struck, engulfing the empty taxi in a ball of fire.

He scanned the street to check for Gaby, Illya, and any civilian casualties. No one was around but the T.H.R.U.S.H. hit squad. He sprinted away. The roar of the motorcycles followed close behind. 

Solo ran until he crashed into two London Bobbies on patrol.

“Watch yourself, sir,” one of them said, helping Napoleon to his feet. An idea struck him. 

“You’ve got me, gentlemen.” The U.N.C.L.E. agent raised his hands. “I’m turning myself in.”

“What the hell are you on about?” one of the police officers asked.

“Haven’t you heard?” Napoleon produced the  _ Echo _ issue from his jacket pocket and handed it to the officers. “It’s all over the papers.”

▽▽▽

Holding hands, Illya and Gaby made their way through the dusty, dimly lit room. It appeared to be some sort of thrift shop or storage room, with all sorts of odd garments hanging on racks. They’d broken into the building through an open street-level window to get away from the pursuing T.H.R.U.S.H. agents. 

“I hope Napoleon’s safe,” Gaby said.

“He definitely got out of the cab in time,” Illya said. “I just hope the Agony Aunt hasn’t caught him.” 

Together, they stumbled out of the room and into a dark corridor.

“We can hide out here for a bit, until we’re sure they’ve passed,” Illya whispered. 

Suddenly, a door flew open and an older woman holding a clipboard burst into the hallway.

“You two are back here canoodling?” she bellowed. “The show’s just about to start! Go, go, go!” With surprising strength, she grabbed both agents by the arm and dragged them out into a brightly lit space. Illya’s eyes took a minute to adjust from the dazzling light. When he was finally able to force open his lids, he found that he and Gaby were surrounded by a crowd of hip young people.

That’s when Illya noticed the wall of cameras pointed at them and the youthful, buzzing audience beyond that. Then a skinny man in a glittery purple suit jumped out of nowhere, laughing like a madman. 

“Welcome to Brouhaha!” the host shouted. “This is Groovy Gary. I’m here with some of the fabbest hepcats in all of swinging London.” 

The crowd erupted. 

“Oh no,” Gaby said.

“Oh no,” Illya said.

Groovy Gary sauntered over and put his arm around Illya. Normally, the U.N.C.L.E. agent would’ve snapped the man’s shoulder out of its socket, but, in this case, he was too embarrassed to move. “Get ready to watch these beautiful people dance holes in their soles. Our celebrity judges will then decide who’s all show and no go, and who’s coming back to Brouhaha next week!” Groovy Gary kissed Illya on the cheek before running off-camera. “Good luck, baby!” 

Illya found himself wondering why U.N.C.L.E. didn’t issue cyanide capsules to its agents.

“Rockin’ Robin” blasted on the speakers. All of the couples began to dance vigorously, except for Gaby and Illya. They stood completely still.

“Can you twist?” Gaby asked.

“No,” he said, cold with fear. 

“What can you do?”

“Nothing… actually… some classic Roma folk dances.“

“What?”

“My father was Roma — one of eleven children…” Kuryakin froze. He’d been through countless gun battles with Gaby, but it was the fear of dancing on television that prompted him to open up a bit about his family life.

“Anything else?”

“I can waltz?” he tried 

“Christ.” Gaby blinked, then grabbed his arm and guided his hand to the small of her back. “Okay. We’re doing this.” 

Gaby and Illya began to waltz, weaving in and out of the crowd of contestants dancing like normal people. He had to hunch over slightly because she was so much shorter than him.

“How have we not been eliminated yet?” Illya muttered.

“You better pray we’re not eliminated,” Gaby said. “Those T.H.R.U.S.H. goons are literally waiting in the wings.  _ Twirl me _ .” Illya complied. “I needed to get a better look. They’re both pointing guns at us underneath their jackets.”

“Can we run out through the audience?” Illya asked, twirling Gaby again.

She shook her head. “No. More henchmen are guarding the front.”

“I have an idea.” Illya paused. The feeling of her small hand on his shoulder was distracting. “Do you mind if I spin you in the air?”

“And use me to knock those guys down?”

“Yes.” The idea had sounded better in his head. 

To his surprise, she grinned at him. “Why not? If we’re going to get murdered on a stupid televised dancing contest, we might as well go out in a bang. Just don’t drop me.”

“I won’t let you go,” he said. She rolled her eyes, but he meant it. Illya and Gaby waltzed closer to the edge of the stage. As he danced, Illya saw glimpses of the T.H.R.U.S.H. goons glowering at them. 

“Now!” Gaby said. As gently as he could manage, Illya lifted her off the floor and swung her at the T.H.R.U.S.H. agents. She managed to kick both in the face; one dropped to the floor, the other lunged at the waltzing pair, chasing them onto the dance floor. The three henchmen guarding the front exit followed suit, soon they’d surrounded Illya and Gaby — right in front of the cameras. 

“Whoa!” The artificially warm voice of the MC took on a harsher tone. 

Illya looked down at Gaby and saw her wink. She let go of him and began to twist. Still dancing, she took out one of the henchmen with a kick to the stomach. Illya got the idea and began to dance (that is, he began to spin around wildly, mowing over the T.H.R.U.S.H. operatives like bowling pins). 

When the dust settled, the goons were all lying incapacitated, Groovy Gary was screaming for security, and the other contestants had stopped dancing in order to gape at the violent newcomers.

Gaby pulled Illya into a small bow for the cameras. Then, holding hands, they ran for the exit.

Night had fallen. They sprinted down the icy London street. Snowflakes shimmered down from the clouds, melting on the pavement and frosting the clumps of dirty snow on the curbs. 

“Our trophy had better be in the mail,” Gaby said, once they slowed to a walk. Then, she and Illya laughed until their communicators began to beep at the same time. 

Illya fumbled his out of his pocket. Gaby giggled as he tried to figure out how to work the thing, cursing under his breath in Russian. 

Finally, he managed to get it under control and Waverly’s voice sounded over the frequency. “Such language, Kuryakin! I could hear you on Ms. Teller’s line!” 

“This technology is stupid,” Illya grumbled. “It will never catch on. Talking pens. Why not just stick to phones?”

“Because you can’t carry a phone in your pocket, can you, Mr. Kuryakin? Now, listen up, I have some grave news. U.N.C.L.E.’s London headquarters has been compromised.” Illya and Gaby shared a look of alarm. “No need to worry too much. I’m safe. I’m about to charter a plane back to the New York office. We had to evacuate all personnel to different bureaus.”

“What happened?” Gaby asked.

“There was an attack on the London branch. T.H.R.U.S.H. actually managed to breach the office. No one on our side was killed, and we managed to destroy or evacuate any sensitive files. They got nothing but a burnt out building. Still, this has not a particularly special day. So, basically, continue your mission but don’t go anywhere near the office right now. I’ve arranged for you all to stay at the Ritz. Don’t get excited. It’s not what it used to be. Sort of like our London branch right now.”

“Any word from Solo?” Gaby asked.

“Yes. Mr. Solo got himself arrested to escape the clutches of that team of T.H.R.U.S.H. assassins. Calls have been made. He is now a free man and on his way to meet you at the Ritz. Be safe.”

Waverly nixed the transmission. 

“The hotel is close by,” Illya said. He and Gaby walked in silence for a bit, stunned by the news about the attack. After a few blocks, they reached the towering hotel.

“What do you want to do after this?” Gaby asked, as they strolled up to the entrance.

“Take a shower,” Illya said. “Then get some sleep.” 

“No, I mean after U.N.C.L.E.”

“After U.N.C.L.E.” He didn’t need to think about that. There probably wasn’t going to be an after U.N.C.L.E., not for him. He just didn’t see himself resigning.  Solo might. For all his debauchery, Illya could envision him leaving the spy world behind and becoming a kind of patron of the arts with a part-time faculty post in the art history department of some Ivy League school. Maybe he might settle down with a fancy American wife and raise a family. Solo had a future.  Where could Illya even go after U.N.C.L.E.? Back to his sad little apartment in Moscow? Or Kiev, his hometown? Back to the KGB? That was a bleak prospect. Working for U.N.C.L.E. had clearly already put a target on his back. That fiasco at the Lourdes Station had been the final straw. There was no going back to his old life. 

People like him didn’t have anything to look forward to. He’d probably work until he died on the job — either in the field or buried deep in some black site prison.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“I want to open a car repair shop,” Gaby said. “Somewhere that’s quiet, but close enough to a decently sized city. I need some excitement in my life.”

Illya smiled at her. He could imagine her poring over engines, scolding and guiding less experienced mechanics — all while wearing her signature mod sunglasses and dresses. 

“You would be wonderful… at owning a mechanic shop,” he managed.

“You think?”

“Yes.”

They parted in the lobby — Kuryakin headed upstairs to bed while Gaby went to find Solo — presumably holed up at the hotel bar — to let him know they were okay. 

As he rode the elevator, Illya stared at his reflection in the reflective walls. He could still feel the warmth, the pressure of her hand on his shoulder; somehow it lingered, like a small fire on his skin.


	7. The Headshot Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya comes close to confessing his feelings to Gaby.

**_December 16, 1965_ **

**_The Ritz Hotel, Piccadilly, London, England_ **

The next morning, the U.N.C.L.E. agents awoke to find their communicators on the fritz. Napoleon decided to hunt down a payphone and ring up Waverly in order to brainstorm next steps.  He left Illya and Gaby in the hotel room, alone with Solomon Burke singing “Cry to Me” on the portable record player that Teller ordered room service to bring up.

“Are you going to dance?” Gaby asked Illya, once Solo had left. She snapped a picture of Kuryakin on Solo’s camera.

“No,” Illya said. 

“But you’re  _ quite _ a dancer,” Gaby said, with a small smile. “As the Brouhaha audience learned last night.” 

“Quite.” Illya smiled too. “Not good or bad, just  _ quite _ .”

“ _ Quite _ . Indeed.” Their suite was  _ quite _ cold, so Gaby bundled herself in a blanket on the bed. Sitting there, she hummed along with the music. Kuryakin listened to her try and fail to keep in tune.  He loved her so much he felt sick.

“I care for you,” he blurted out. Then, Illya tensed up, terrified. This was neither the time nor the place. “Forgive me, I…”

“Sorry?” Gaby popped her head out of her impromptu tent. “Did you say something?”

“No,” the Russian said. 

“Okay.” She batted her eyelashes at him. “Illya, could you dance yourself downstairs and grab some extra copies of today’s  _ Echo _ ? I want to make sure we haven’t overlooked anything.”

“Yes, bothersome chop shop girl,” he said, heart pounding as he left the room. Thank goodness she hadn’t heard him. 

Arriving downstairs, he found that the lobby didn’t have any copies of the  _ Echo _ . Illya had to go to the local chip shop, where they used the newspaper to wrap their fishy products. They didn’t sell individual issues, so he had to buy a whole greasy stack. 

The adventure granted him more time to ruminate. By the time he’d gotten to the backdoor of the hotel and began making his way up the dingy service stairs, he’d given up on ever telling Gaby he loved her. The things he loved never fared too well, after all. Staying silent would be better for everyone. 

Illya knew something was wrong before he even returned to the room. From the elevator, he could see a trail of dark red droplets leading to the elevator doors. He rushed down the hallway. The door to their suite was cracked open. Inside, he could hear the “Cry To Me” record skipping. It sounded like one never-ending, staccato wail— _ crycrycrycry _ .

Illya dropped the stack of newspapers, drew his gun from his shoulder holster, and entered the room.  There was so much blood, fresh, wet, red, and seeped into the white comforter. The lamp was smashed. The mirror was shattered. He glanced at the spiral pattern in the glass and noticed a shadow. He whirled around, gun aimed at the man with a familiar face. He couldn’t quite place where he’d seen the smug smile before…

“ _ Where is she _ ?” Illya asked. The man was wearing Gaby’s camera around his neck. 

“Your little girlfriend?” the guy laughed, aiming his gun at Illya. “She was feisty. Very cute. We blasted her in the head.” 

Illya shot him in the forehead. As he watched the dead man’s brains seep onto the carpet, he finally recognized him. The intruder was one of the  _ Echo _ ’s Sports reporters.  Illya could feel himself beginning to shake. The sportswriter had to be bluffing about Gaby. She couldn’t be gone. Illya had to find her. She had to be okay. 

Just then, Kuryakin felt the sting of a needle in his neck. Of course there had been more than one of them — T.H.R.U.S.H. operatives were pack animals. He’d been an idiot. 

Illya tried to turn around, but all he could do was look at the bed, at all the blood in the room, until it melted into the redness behind his eyelids.

_ crycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycry _ .


	8. The Wire Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya finds himself in a dispute with the publisher. Gaby finally takes a look at the former KGB agent's advice column.

**_December 16, 1965_ **

**_Port of Felixstowe, England_ **

Illya stood with his arms stretched skyward, tied at the wrists and connected by rope to a pulley on the ceiling. His chest was covered in burn marks, where the wires had kissed his skin.  T.H.R.U.S.H. had wanted to know where Waverly was hiding, what U.N.C.L.E. had found out, weak spots in the organization’s security — the usual. 

A door creaked open. “Gentlemen, I’ll take over from here.” The original interrogators dispersed as Rush sauntered over to Illya. “Surprised?”

“No,” Illya said, truthfully.

“You should really talk,” Rush said. “What’ve you got to lose at this point? Listen… if you help us get Waverly and put a stop to this, this U.N.C.L.E.  _ silliness _ , we’ll let you go. We’ll help you get back to Russia. Hell, we’ll probably even sweeten the deal. Even KGB communist thugs like yourself must want a little holiday bonus every once in a while.”

“No.”

“I'll make this simple so you can understand," Rush said, slowly. "We will keep hurting you if you don’t talk."

“Fine.”

Rush laughed. “ _ Fine _ . You’re fine with that?”

“Sure.”

“Everyone has a breaking point. And I think I know yours.”

“You don't know me,” Illya said, smiling slightly.

“Yep. I think I do. Just look at this.” The publisher held up a circle with a spike jutting from it. “Swiped it from the  _ Echo _ . It’s a paper spike.” 

Illya twitched his shoulders — it was all he could do to shrug. T.H. Rush gripped Kuryakin by the ear, bringing the spike closer and closer to his eye.

"Go ahead," Illya said, blankly.

Rush withdrew the spike. “Actually, I want you to keep your eyes. There’s something I want you to see. You see, newspaper editors use this little device to kill stories. Like so.” Rush demonstrated by impaling several photographs. “One of my boys took these… before you shot him in the face. I took the liberty of having them developed post haste.” 

Rush plucked one off the spike and waved it in the U.N.C.L.E. agent’s face.

Illya went cold. 

_ Gaby _ . 

“It’s your friend Gaby,” Rush said. The Russian shook his head and tried to turn away. “Look.” Rush grabbed Illya’s chin, forcing him to look at the photo. “See for yourself.”

Illya stared. The picture was of Gaby, eyes closed, pale, lying on the hotel bed, hairline thick with blood, lips slightly parted. Definitely Gaby. She certainly looked dead. 

“You’ve got nothing left to live for. No one left to protect. So talk.” 

Illya took a breath. He felt as if his insides had been scooped out and replaced with ice.

“Well, are you going to talk?” Rush asked. “Or do we need to take even more drastic measures?” The U.N.C.L.E. agent said nothing. “Wow. I’d heard you were robotic, but still… I honestly expected more of a reaction. My sources indicated that you two have… well…  _ had _ a thing. Ought to use the past tense, I suppose.” He tossed the pictures in the air and strolled out of the cell. “I guess we’ll have to do this the old fashioned way and just keep hurting you. See you in a few.”

Illya hung there for a moment, staring at the scattered photos on the ground. Tears began to drip down his face, but he didn’t make a sound.

He didn’t speak when they came back with the wires. When they were done shocking him, they let him hang there. He was silent the whole time. 

▽▽▽

**_The Ritz Hotel, Piccadilly, London, England_ **

As a general rule, head wounds were always rather bloody. 

When those fools from the Sports section burst in with guns blazing, they somehow managed to just graze Gaby’s forehead in the ensuing shootout. Teller played dead till one came close enough to grab her camera and take a few snaps. Once he was done with his little creative venture, she shot one of his companions, and sprinted out of the room to the hotel elevator. 

Clutching her head, Gaby had staggered into the lobby, panicking the concierge. Fortunately, Napoleon had been heading back into the hotel at that point. Together, they headed back up to the room, with Solo wrapping her head with some elastic bandages in the elevator.

The first thing she saw when the elevator doors opened was that stack of newspapers in the hallway. Somehow, she’d missed Illya. 

She ran to the room, gun drawn, expecting to find his body. She didn’t. Only the body of the man she’d killed — tucked away on the far side of the bed — plus another one. The new corpse — the man who’d stolen her camera — was sporting a smirk and a clean shot to the forehead. It certainly looked like Illya’s handiwork. They must have taken him. Otherwise, he’d be lying dead in the suite too. Or he would’ve found her. 

Napoleon and Gaby dug into the pockets of each corpse. One had a bunch of napkins in his jacket, emblazoned with the logo for something called Firebird Inn.

So Solo hailed a cab and they rode there in silence. Gaby stared out the window at the gray London streets. She squeezed her hands into fists, until she heard the crinkle of paper. Gaby loosened her grip on the crumpled newsprint. A copy of the _Echo._ Gaby hadn’t even realized that she’d grabbed it. 

Slowly, she flipped to Aunt Lark’s page — Illya’s page — and read the daily advice column. 

_ Dear Aunt Lark, _

_ I’m in love with a coworker. He’s perfect. How do I tell him that I love him? I can’t just outright say it. I am very shy. _

_ Lovesick in Liverpool _

_ Dear Lovesick, _

_ Sometimes it is good to start by showing someone that you love them.  _

_ Say nice things to the person you love.  _

_ Ask how their day is.  _

_ Give them food occasionally. _

_ But all in all, it’s better to tell the truth. If they do not love you, you must move on. And if they return your feelings, this is good.  _

_ I am a hypocrite for advising you in this manner. It can be difficult to express your true feelings to people you care for. But you’ve got to just try to be brave. _

_ Aunt Lark _

A few tears dripped onto the newsprint and Gaby realized she was crying. Furious with herself, she wiped her eyes, folded up the article, and put it in her purse. 

▽▽▽

**_Port of Felixstowe, England_ **

A quick surveillance of the warehouse — which had once housed a bar called Firebird Inn, as indicated by the large, fading sign — revealed there were about fifteen T.H.R.U.S.H. operatives and only two U.N.C.L.E. agents preparing to storm the premises. 

“It’s okay,” Gaby whispered, seeing Napoleon’s concerned look. “I packed smoke bombs.”

They waited for a henchman to walk out of the back door for a quick smoke break. Napoleon pulled the goon into a headlock and tightened his grip until the man passed out.  Then, he and Teller rushed through the door. Gaby immediately began throwing smoke bombs in every direction. Hissing, white and black plumes of smoke began floating throughout the largely empty warehouse. 

As planned, the two U.N.C.L.E. agents split up. The goal was to rescue Illya and get out as quickly as possible — they had no time to fight it out with a whole T.H.R.U.S.H. squadron. 

“Illya!” Gaby called out, over the din of bullets and shouts. She began to run forward, making her way toward one of the corners of the warehouse. Solo had seemingly drawn most of the fire to the opposite side of the building. “Where are you?”

Then, she fell down after running smack into someone — someone cold, tall, and very quiet. She looked up, squinting to see through the smoke. 

It was Illya. He was just hanging there, suspended by his wrists, his eyes closed. A handkerchief had been tied around his mouth. Wires trailed from his bare chest to some nearby generator. He had been beaten badly. He looked dead, but she preferred not to think about that possibility.  Instead, she focused on the task at hand.

Gaby began running around, searching for a chair to stand on — she’d need one in order to cut his 6’5 frame down. Suddenly, she felt the barrel of a gun pressed against her back.

“Looking for your boyfriend, darling?” a man asked, behind her. She recognized his voice — it was one of the Sports writers who’d attacked her. This must have been the man who had taken Illya. Gaby whirled around, snatched his gun away, and shot him. “No,” she said, as he slumped to the ground. “Just something to stand on.”

Stepping onto her fallen enemy, Gaby could just manage to reach high enough to saw through the cable holding up Illya. She tried to lower him down gently, but he ended up dropping to the ground. For a moment, Gaby cradled his still form. She untied the cloth around his mouth, and sliced the bindings still cutting into his wrists. Then she leaned closer, feeling his soft breath against her cheek, before snapping back into focus. 

“Napoleon, I’ve found him,” Gaby said into her communicator, as she struggled to drag the massive Russian to safety. “Let’s get out of here.”

As she slowly pulled him toward the door, Illya opened his blue eyes and looked at her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I… lost you.”

“Can you stand?”

“I don’t know.”

With her help, he was able to struggle to his feet. She supported him as they walked out the door.

“You were dead…” Illya whispered, once they emerged into the freezing winter day.

“No,” she said. “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

Gaby held onto him. She was afraid Kuryakin would sway and topple over if she didn’t. 

“Gaby…” 

In the light, she could tell he’d been crying. Her heart began to race. She had come so close to losing him forever. 

Gaby kissed him on the cheek. He looked down at her, surprised. 

Just then, Napoleon burst out of the warehouse. “Have you two caught a cab?” he asked. “Do I have to do everything?” Solo flagged down a black taxi and the three U.N.C.L.E. agents piled in, just as the surviving T.H.R.U.S.H. henchmen spilled out of the building. 

They rode in silence. The alarmed taxi driver dropped them off at the nearest hospital. 

There, Illya was immediately loaded into a gurney and whisked off. Solo and Gaby took turns standing watch outside and sleeping in the chair beside his hospital bed. 

On Teller’s second watch, Napoleon left the hospital to grab some food. Gaby stood there, leaning against the window into the room. She sensed something behind her — a tapping sound. She turned to see Illya tossing candy wrappers at the glass window separating them. There had been a bowl of them on the table beside his bed.

Teller opened the door and leaned in. “Are you okay?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I just wanted to say… I am very… I am happy to see you.”

“Yeah.” She walked to his beside. “I was worried about you.”

“Yes.”

“Yes.” Gaby nodded and began to turn, ready to walk back out.

“I love you,” Illya said. 

“I love you too.” Gaby leaned over the railing of the hospital bed and kissed him on the lips. Then she climbed in with him. They lay together for some time. She didn’t sleep — she was still on guard duty, after all. Gaby kept very still. She was scared to move and hurt him.


	9. The Fifth Column Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The U.N.C.L.E. agents head back to work at the newsroom on a particularly busy news day.

**_December 17, 1965_ **

**_South Kensington, London_ **

When Napoleon returned with some sandwiches, he was startled to find Gaby gone. Peering in the window, he saw her lying next to Illya.  Solo nodded, satisfied. After all this time, he had finally ensnared his two friends in his web of matchmaking. 

Solo took over guarding the room for the rest of the night. He even went inside and drew the window curtains shut, just in case they wanted to get up to something more interesting than lying together and holding hands.  As the first rays of dawn began to shoot in through the hallway window, Solo decided that it was a good time to check in on his friends and regroup. He radioed Gaby on the pen communicator.

“Are you two decent?”

The hospital room door swung open, revealing a glowering, hospital gown-clad Illya. “Yes.” Frazzled but fully dressed, Gaby sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes. 

“Got a good night’s rest, everyone?” Napoleon asked, sweeping into the room and sitting down at the foot of the bed. 

Illya and Gaby grumbled in response. He tossed them each a sandwich, which they devoured. 

Solo could see that Kuryakin’s face was pale and dotted with a few swelling bruises. He still looked a bit shaky on his feet. 

“Illya — are you still feeling up to this mission?” he asked. “If not, Gaby and I can take over and we can ask Waverly to evacuate you to a hospital near one of the U.N.C.L.E. stations in France or Spain.”

“I’m fine,” Illya said. “Just help me find clothes and I will be ready to leave.”

Suddenly, all of their communicators beeped. Waverly’s voice crackled through the room.

“Are you all safe and in a private location?”

“Yes,” Napoleon said.

“We just sent a team back to the abandoned London office to give it one more go over,” Waverly said, sounding tired. “I’m afraid that they discovered a message on the phones that came in just a few minutes ago. I’ll play it for you.”

“ _ Napoleon _ !” a thin voice whispered, over the communicators. Solo froze. It was Robin True — Rush’s executive assistant. “I’m afraid… I’m afraid something terrible is going to happen at the  _ Echo _ offices.” She sounded like she had been crying. “Mr. Rush has gone mad. He says that he’s—”

Robin gasped, then the message ended.

“Whatever is happening at the  _ Echo _ right now, it can’t be good,” Waverly said, gravely.

“We’d better head over there,” Solo said. 

“Let’s go,” Gaby said.

“I don’t have any clothes,” Illya said. “I’m not going in this hospital gown.” Gaby stifled a laugh.

“Mr. Waverly, could you have some of clean up team meet us with some clothes for Illya?” Solo asked, smiling at Gaby. “There should be plenty of outfits in his size in the changing room in the old London office.”

“Oh dear, indeed. How fortunate,” Waverly said, after a moment. “I suppose that explains where the majority of this year’s disguise budget went, Mr. Solo.”

▽▽▽

The staff of the  _ Echo _ sat on the floor of the office. A few moments earlier, the owner of the paper had burst in holding a machine gun, with a small army following close behind. Surprisingly, much of this squadron consisted of members of the Sports and Ads sections. They had forced everyone to cluster around one of the central news desks, upon which Rush now stood. 

“I’m afraid there will be layoffs,” he said. “Namely, every section that isn’t Sports and Ads.” 

“What kind of team-building exercise is this?” Melissa from Copy wailed.

The publisher just laughed and drew out a large saber. The T.H.R.U.S.H. security agents drew their guns. “Don’t worry, there’ll be  _ severance _ packages aplenty. And by severance packages, I mean  _ death _ .” 

“No!” The door to the editor-in-chief’s office swung open, revealing Wright. He had a shotgun aimed at Rush. 

“How did you get in there?” Rush looked bemused. “Sleeping in the office again, Wright?” 

“Let them go.” 

“How about this instead, Wright? I kill them all and save you for last. I’ll make it look like a suicide. I can just see the headlines now. ‘Deranged former editor goes on rampage in former workplace.’”

“That’s not a particularly compelling headline. You used ‘former’ twice.” Brian fired, hitting Rush in the stomach. The publisher fell to the ground. Then he staggered to his feet again and ripped open his white shirt, revealing a black, bulletproof vest. 

“Very cute, chief. I didn’t think you had it in you.” 

Wright responded by hurling a paper spike at his adversary’s face. It fell short of its intended target and two guards grabbed the demoted editor-in-chief, seizing the shotgun. “Now you’ve annoyed me. I think I’m going to use your  _ skin _ to print a very special edition.”

“That would really muck up the press,” Wright said, quietly. “Nowadays, wood pulp is really the only thing you can use.”

“Time to  _ kill this story _ ,” Rush said, aiming a shotgun at Brian’s head. A gunshot sounded across the office. But Wright didn’t slump over, dead. Instead, Rush screamed — his pistol had exploded from his hand. 

▽▽▽

Set up on a window-washing contraption hanging outside the newsroom, Gaby had shot through the glass pane to save the editor. Her bullet had _almost_ met its mark. The burn marks on Illya's skin blazing through her mind, s he had been aiming at Rush’s head. Now she'd managed to save Brian, but had lost the element of surprise in the process.

Sighing, Gaby kicked through the already shattered window and burst into the newsroom. At that point, the scene descended into chaos. Flames seemed to spontaneously appear around the office — the result of some generous splashes of gasoline and the T.H.R.U.S.H. standard issue lighters. Gaby opened fire on the  T.H.R.U.S.H. goons. When they shot back, she rolled behind a desk, reloaded, and then returned fire.

When Teller finally peeked her head above the desk, she saw that the entire place was ablaze. 

She heard Napoleon’s voice ring out, over the flames. “Talk about being hot off the press!” 

Gaby rolled her eyes.

▽▽▽

Napoleon, who had been stationed in the hallway just outside the  _ Echo  _ office, burst in and fired a few shots, but quickly stopped his rampage. All of the T.H.R.U.S.H. agents were retreating quickly, fleeing the smoke and flames. Plus, there were so many staff members still in the office. He couldn’t risk hitting one. 

Napoleon began ushering  _ Echo  _ employees out of the office to the staircase. There, he saw something that chilled him. Scrawled on a note pinned to the staircase door, in black ink, was the word  _ HELP — RT. _ He took a closer look. The ink was fine and fresh. It could very well have come from a ballpoint pen. 

_ RT. Robin True _ .

In the meantime, Gaby checked around the burning office to make sure no one was left, while Illya stood guard, just in case Rush and his goons returned. 

To ensure that no one was left behind, Napoleon ordered everyone to descend by section. After some time, he returned to the office to report a mostly completed job. “Okay, we’ve cleared out all of the news section, all of the opinions section, food, travel, features, business, copy, and all of the executive editors. And of course, sports and advertising have proven to be evil.”

“So is that everyone?” Illya asked.

“No. The metro desk aptly pointed out that the executive assistant to the publisher and the editor-in-chief are both still missing.”

“Found the editor!” Gaby called from across the office. At that moment, the ceiling started to cave in. Solo and Illya dodged the falling debris, until they reached Teller. She was standing over Brian.

A portion of a ceiling beam had fallen across Wright’s legs, pinning him to the floor. Gaby struggled to move the metal, but it didn’t budge.

“We’re also missing Robin,” Napoleon noted. He was worried. She hadn’t been with Rush earlier. 

Gaby and Illya shrugged.

“I haven’t seen her,” Wright said, casually. “Don’t worry about me. You should go find her.”

“We’re going to get you out of here,” Gaby told him. Napoleon looked at her, his expression doubtful. 

“It’s fine,” Wright said. “This is my home. I see my role as a bit akin to that of a naval captain. So it's fitting that I should go down with this ship.”

“Suit yourself,” Napoleon said. 

“No.” Glowering at his friend, Illya lifted up the beam with one arm and dragged Wright away with the other. He picked the editor up and jogged toward the exit. Gaby and Napoleon shrugged at each other and followed him out of the office. 

Once in the hallway, Solo pointed out the message scrawled on the door.

“I think they’ve taken Robin.”

“Or literally anyone with a pen,” Gaby said.

Napoleon shook his head. “She’s not anywhere to be seen, plus we got that call from her asking for us to come. She might be in trouble. You two help with the evacuation and check if Rush and Co. have taken a street-level escape route,” Napoleon said, plucking the note off the door as they entered the staircase. “I’ll look for Robin."

“But where?” Gaby frowned. "That's not much to go on?"

Napoleon stared at the other side of the paper, then turned it toward Gaby. Someone had slashed an upward arrow on the paper, so hard that it'd nearly torn the page. "The roof.”

▽▽▽

After handing Wright off to Melissa from Copy and one of the Features editors, Gaby and Illya surveyed the surrounding streets — now jammed with emergency vehicles — to check if the T.H.R.U.S.H. faction had made their escape that way. According to witnesses, there had been no sign of Rush and his crew. 

Kuryakin and Teller decided to risk taking the elevator up to meet Napoleon on the roof. It was dangerous, but it seemed worth forgoing a dash up the stairs. 

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents reloaded their guns as the elevator drifted upwards. A jingly, jaunty tune played as they stood in silence.  Gaby’s mind conjured up the words that normally went with the melody.  _ All the little birdies on Jaybird Street, love to hear the robin go tweet, tweet, tweet. _

“Rockin’ Robin,” she gasped.

“Yes, this is the strange song we danced to,” Illya said, smiling. 

“What’s Rush’s assistant’s name? Robin True? Oh my God.” Teller pressed her hand against her pounding forehead. “Aren’t thrushes true robins?”

“I don’t know.” Illya squinted his eyes. “Have you studied ornithology? How do you know so much about birds?” 

“Illya, our major antagonists are a bunch of tacky megalomaniacs in an organization named T.H.R.U.S.H. You better bet they’re going to use aviary puns at every chance. It’s our  _ business _ to know about birds.”

▽▽▽

“Found you,” Napoleon murmured under his breath. He was hiding behind some crates, right by the large T.H.R.U.S.H. chopper parked on the building’s rooftop helipad. From his vantage point, he could see two or three goons waiting in the helicopter. Rush and Robin stood outside, talking in hushed tones. His hand gripped her arm tightly. He looked furious.

The barrel of a gun bit into his ribs. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Solo.” It was the Agony Aunt. The American raised his hands as he was prodded over to the helicopter. 

He smiled sadly at Robin. “I’m sorry, Robin.”

“Oh Napoleon,” she said, sounding near tears.

Shooting his personal assistant a rather confused look, Rush strode up to the U.N.C.L.E. agent. “This is what you get for ruining what promised to be a fun office event.” The publisher punched Solo in the face. Napoleon reeled, but did not fall over. 

“Happy to oblige.” The U.N.C.L.E. agent clutched his eye.

“Now, Napoleon, I think it’s time to show you the true meaning of  _ flying Solo _ ,” Rush said. “Agony Aunt – toss him off the roof.” 

Napoleon decided that he would rather go out with a bullet in his brain than with his guts splattered all over the London street below.  Before he could lunge at the Agony Aunt, however, something strange happened.  Robin did it for him, striding forward and ripping the weapon from the assassin’s hands.

“Not so fast.” Robin shoved the Agony Aunt towards Rush and raised the weapon at both of them.

Rush’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Robin! Don’t tell me you’re falling for this Yank idiot!”

Grinning, Napoleon stepped forward, expecting her to hand over the gun and embrace him. 

“Step away, Mr. Solo,” she said, coldly. Smile frozen on his face, he obeyed. “It’s high time for a change in leadership around here, don’t you think, Mr. Rush?”

“I don’t understand, darling. This whole thing was your idea!”

“Exactly. My idea. My research. My serum. Why should you get all the credit?”

“It’s not about individual glory! Once this wraps up, you’ll be a part of T.H.R.U.S.H.”

“Yes, after I help  _ you _ take over England with  _ my _ serum. I know all about the T.H.R.U.S.H. hierarchy. I know how these things work. Well, dear, after watching you bungle this simple raid today, I’ve decided to cut out the middleman.”

Napoleon raised his hand. “I have a question—”

“Shut up,” Robin snapped, directing her gaze toward the murderous advice columnist. “Do you have a problem with this?” 

“Nope.” The assassin calmly lit a cigarette. “You’re the boss now.”

“Good. Get in the chopper. You’ll be overseeing the distribution of the serum at the printing press today. Make sure it gets into the black ink. Today’s the day we bestow our gift on the world.”

“Wait, Robin dear, I can still help,” Rush pleaded, reaching toward the helicopter. “Let me stay.”

“No.”

“You can’t leave me here,” Rush said. “I’m the only one here who can fly a helicopter!” 

“I’m not going to leave you  _ here _ , darling.” Robin affectionately placed her hand in the center of Rush’s chest. He grinned. He was still smiling as she shoved him over the railing and off the side of the building. Solo watched the screaming publisher hurtle to the pavement below. 

“Mr. Solo, you really thought that dolt was capable of organizing all this?” Robin smirked. “Of inventing a serum to control the mind?”

“So  _ you’re _ the general’s daughter,” Solo said, his face blank.

“Indeed. My father was in T.H.R.U.S.H. Growing up, I dreamed of taking it over, making it more than an evil country club populated with bumbling rich boys like Rush. I developed a serum that could completely change the game. My father helped me. Then he got cold feet when he realized how powerful the formula was. He got soft. He stole it from me, had the Hungarians confiscate it. So I eliminated him.”

“And Ian.”

“And Ian. I’m willing to sacrifice my love, my chance at happiness for this mission.” She waved the gun at Napoleon. “Rush wasn’t the only one who knows how to fly a chopper, correct?”

Napoleon sighed. “Where do you want to go?” 

▽▽▽

Holding hands as they ran, Illya and Gaby burst onto the roof just as the helicopter took off. They’d seen Rush’s fall from out a window in the staircase and immediately guessed that something was very wrong. Solo had certainly killed before, but he wouldn’t do something as unsporting as throw someone off a skyscraper (unless he absolutely had to).

Then, Napoleon had activated his communicator, allowing them to overhear the entire conversation between Robin and Rush. 

“That’s a T.H.R.U.S.H. chopper,” Gaby said, pointing at its avian logo. She could just make out the pilot. Illya raised the rocket launcher he’d snatched from one of the fallen attackers. “Illya! You can’t. Napoleon’s flying it. They must have him at gunpoint.” Gaby blinked at the Russian as he slowly, stiffly lowered the weapon.

“We’ve got to commandeer a police helicopter,” Illya said, face set with determination. He didn’t take his blue eyes off the retreating aircraft as it pulled further and further away. 

“Illya.” Gaby’s tone was urgent. “We’ve got to check the printer first.”

“But… Cowboy.”

“I know.” Gaby’s stomach twisted. She put her hands on his arms. “But if the serum is already at the printer, T.H.R.U.S.H. will win and he will die anyway.”

Illya closed his eyes for a moment. “You’re right.”


	10. The Fourth Estate Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya and Gaby strive to solve the mystery of "the fourth estate" in order to rescue Napoleon.

**_December 18, 1965_ **

**_The Vierte Estate_ **

**_Somewhere in the Alps, Switzerland_ **

It had been too long since Napoleon had gotten to stay at a real, honest-to-God chateau. The dungeon in the basement wasn’t a prime location as far as rooms went, but he was relatively happy to be there, nonetheless. He’d rather not die, of course, but if he had to perish, he’d prefer to do it in a castle in the Alps rather than a grimy warehouse or a creepy laboratory.  Unfortunately for Napoleon, his well-meaning inquires about the chateau’s age and architectural style caused the guards to forcibly inject him with drugs to make him stop talking.

So Solo lay on the floor in a cold, swirling stupor, watching the icicles glint on the ceiling. When he finally regained some semblance of consciousness, he found a squadron of silent guards ready to escort him somewhere (presumably his execution, but there was always hope). 

“I assume this is the historical tour?” he slurred. The squadron dragged him up some narrow, spiral stairs, through a richly furnished foyer, and out the front door, without even time to admire the various antiquated weapons and artifacts displayed on the burgundy walls. 

He closed his eyes. It was painfully bright and his eyes had grown accustomed to the dungeon. When he finally was able to force his lids open and blink back a few involuntary tears, the first thing he saw were the black and white mountain peaks, rising up against the blue sky.  The estate was totally coated with heaps of snow, which glinted in the sunlight. Out in front of the chateau stretched a wide, white plain, dotted with a garden maze, a large fountain, and a pond shaped like a lagoon — all covered in ice, of course. 

In front of the castle, a metal post jutted out of the frozen ground like an ice pick. Solo noticed that it was skirted with kindling. They chained him to the pole so he faced the marvelously large doors of the chateau. After some time, these opened, revealing Robin.

She ambled over to Napoleon, smiling and bright-eyed. “Welcome to the Vierte Estate.”

He blinked at her. The word conjured up something in his mind —  _ Gaby _ . “That’s German, isn’t it? Fourth? The Fourth Estate?” He groaned. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s just a bit of fun.” Giggling, Robin slipped green earmuffs that matched her own over Napoleon’s ears, which were turning pink in the cold. “Don’t want you getting chilly before we burn you alive.”

“How thoughtful,” he said. He looked down, realizing he was standing on a large stack of  _ Echo _ copies. The newsprint was squishy from being doused with flammable liquids — kerosene, from the smell of it. “Doesn’t this seem a bit silly?”

“Think of it this way,” Robin said. “If you want your death to get in the papers, you’ve got to have a gimmick.”

“Fair enough,” Napoleon said. “Shame that no one will be here to see it.”

“For now. Soon, all the T.H.R.U.S.H. bigwigs will be here to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

“St. Flannan’s Day.” Robin rolled her eyes. “What do you think? My triumph. T.H.R.U.S.H.’s ultimate victory. Your death.”

“Sounds like a party.”

“It will be. Maybe your friends will show up. I didn’t make it too hard to find us. They’ll be around to save you.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“They don’t realize how futile that will be.” Robin laughed. “The majority of Britain will be mine tomorrow. The world leaders at the global conference will fall into line the second they touch their morning papers. The serum forces the subject into an intense, relaxed, and agreeable state. It also leaves you open to suggestion. All I have to do is speak into a radio device set at a certain, secret frequency, in a nearby location, of course.” She removed her complimentary  _ Echo _ pen from behind her ear and held it up to her lips. “Like this one right here. Essentially, the serum will allow my spoken commands to go directly to the brain.”

“Except for the people who die, you mean. Your little science experiment tends to kill one in ten people, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes. That is one side effect.”

“Not that that sort of bothers you. Given how you killed your father. And Ian.”

“Yes.” She frowned. “I didn’t want to, but I suppose it was for the best. He would have never understood all this. And when he told me he would be meeting with his ‘certain secret source in Hungary’ — of course, he never realized it was my own father — I knew he had to die. My father would have told him everything. So I turned his recorder into a bomb.” She waved her gloved hands in the air, dispelling the unhappy memories. “Let’s look at the bright side, shall we? This serum will bring about so much good. Peace. Nuclear disarmament. An end to aggression between different countries and powers. And here’s the beautiful thing — it’ll be a silent revolution. I won’t make any big moves till the vast majority of the world are under my control.” 

“That’s nice,” Solo said, feeling his hands beginning to go numb. “I have one question.” These T.H.R.U.S.H. people always loved when you peppered them with questions throughout their monologue —  _ how? what? why? _ He refused to give Robin that satisfaction. “Could I get some mittens or a scarf, or something?”

▽▽▽

**_South Kensington, London_ **

Gaby hot-wired some poor sap’s car for the ride to the printer. The drive was solemn and quiet, aside from a brief radio message to Waverly to let him know of Napoleon’s capture and Robin’s duplicitous nature. Some deep digging on the part of the U.N.C.L.E. chief confirmed that the young woman certainly  _ could _ be the Hungarian general’s illegitimate child. 

As Teller and Kuryakin approached the large warehouse, Gaby noticed a squadron or so of T.H.R.U.S.H. musclemen waiting for them in the parking lot.

“Looks like the printer’s definitely been infiltrated. How do we get in?” she asked.

“Hold onto something and keep your head down,” Illya said. Gaby complied just as the guards opened fire. Bent over in his seat to avoid the bullets, Illya drove the car straight through the front door.  Slightly dazed, the two agents exited the battered car.

Gaby drew her gun. “I’ll cover you. Go get some gasoline from the tank. Let’s burn this place down and go get Napoleon.”

Illya nodded and headed to the trunk, which contained a portable container. He filled that with fuel from the leaking tank.

Gaby glanced around the printer. It seemed unusually silent. And the men outside had stopped shooting. 

That’s when she noticed the row of giant rolls of newsprint careening toward them on either side. Gaby knew that each one was probably about 850 kilos. B efore she could cry out, Illya shoved her out of the way. She fell to the paved floor, as one of the huge cylinders slammed Kuryakin against the side of the car.

Gaby picked herself up and ran to him, somehow managing to pull his huge form deeper into the press.  Teller leaned over the fallen U.N.C.L.E. agent, her fingers feeling for a pulse on his neck. “Are you dead?” she asked, bluntly. 

Illya smiled without opening his eyes. “What is this silly saying that Cowboy uses? I must be dead, because you look like an angel.” He opened his cold blue eyes and frowned. “If we were together I would never say such things to you.”

Gaby sighed and gave him a kiss on his cut and bruised forehead. She helped Illya stagger to his feet. 

“The serum is in the black ink,” Gaby said. “So all of the papers are contaminated. We need to get to the final stage, where all the papers are bundled and set off to be shipped.”

“This place is a labyrinth,” Illya said. “We’d be able to see everything if we got to higher ground.”

Gaby nodded and held out her small hand, which he seized firmly. Together, they ran around the factory floor, until they found a red, metallic staircase leading up to a web of rickety walkways. 

Gaby and Illya raced down the unguarded path until it came to an abrupt end. The walkway shuddered violently as they moved; Gaby saw that it was held up only by a set of chains connected to a pulley on the ceiling. They were right over the monstrous press, which cranked out a stream of paper at 40 kilometers per hour.  The walkway began to shake. Gaby and Illya whirled around to see six figures chasing after them. They appeared to be carrying large guns.

One of the voices was familiar. “If you’re not careful, you two are going to get splashed all over the tabloids,” the Agony Aunt called.

“We can’t go anywhere and we can’t take all of them,” Gaby whispered. 

“We have to try,” he said, going for his gun. She grabbed his hand.

“Hold onto the railing, tightly. I have an idea.” 

Gaby pointed her firearm at the ceiling and shot. The bullet hit the weak-looking pulley holding up the walkway. Something snapped, and one side of the suspended platform lurched downward, sending three members of the T.H.R.U.S.H. posse plummeting to the factory floor below. One of the agents was actually thrown into the press itself. He crashed through the stream of paper. The machine creaked to a halt. 

“That’s one way to stop the presses,” Gaby remarked. She and Illya slowly began to climb down, using the railing like a hazard.

“That just leaves the issues that have already been printed,” Illya said, once they’d reached the floor. 

“Where’s the Agony Aunt?” Gaby asked, looking around. The T.H.R.U.S.H. contract killer had vanished. 

“We’ll keep an eye out for her,” Illya assured her, before they took off to the part of the warehouse where the papers were accumulated. 

It was a wide, stuffy room lined with piles and piles of the serum-laced papers, all bundled up with string.

“What do you think we should do?” Gaby asked.

Illya flicked out a silver lighter. “Burn it down.” He pointed to a red lever near the door, which activated the factory’s sprinkler system. “Then we put it out.”

Gaby shrugged. It wasn’t ideal, but they didn’t have much time to waste. Illya raced around the room with his lighter, leaving a blazing trail in his wake. Wrapping her coat around her hands (to avoid coming into contact with the serum), Gaby tossed papers onto the flames to speed up the fire.

Just as they were about to exit the inferno, a shadow burst into the room, shoved Illya out the door, and bolted it shut.

It was the Agony Aunt, holding a machine gun.

“You’ve made our plans go up in smoke,” she told Gaby. “Now you will too, and your boyfriend will get to watch.”

Illya pounded on the reinforced glass panel on the door.

“You’ll die too,” Gaby pointed out. “For what?”

“I’m out at the  _ Echo _ and T.H.R.U.S.H. now,” she said, calmly. “Why not go out in a blaze of glory?”

Between the thick smoke and the heat emitting from the wall of fire behind them, the room was becoming almost unbearable. Trying not to breathe, Gaby looked around her for potential weapons. All she saw were crackling embers. 

Slowly, she raised her hands, seemingly surrendering to the T.H.R.U.S.H. agent. Then, Gaby kicked some of the blazing cinders at the Agony Aunt’s face.  The woman screamed in pain, but still lunged for Gaby. She wrapped her hands around Teller’s neck, squeezing the breath out of her.  Dizzy from the smoke and the strangulation, Gaby managed to gather up her last ounce of strength and shove the woman into the fire. She paused for a moment, watching the flames. The Agony Aunt was gone. 

Sighing, Gaby wrapped her jacket around the scalding hot door handle, unlocked it, and stumbled out the room into Illya’s arms. She took Illya's injured hands in hers. He'd slammed the door until they had become bloodied and bruised.  Illya held her close and then leaned in and activated the sprinkler system. The water doused the fire in a matter of a few minutes and soaked the couple. 

“Looks like you killed  _ that _ story,” Illya said, watching the last of the flames go out.

“That joke is dead,” Gaby responded, once she stopped coughing.  Illya nodded in agreement and patted her on the shoulder.  The U.N.C.L.E.-issue communicators let out a series of frantic beeps. 

Waverly’s concerned voice crackled over the airwaves. “Ms. Teller and Mr. Kuryakin, are you both alright?” 

“Yes, Mr. Waverly,” Gaby said. “We’re fine. And we’ve completed our objective — we set the  _ Echo’ _ s warehouse is on fire. We’ll need a clean up team to come and make sure no trace of the serum remains, but we seem to have destroyed most of the contaminated issues.”

“Excellent. So that should stop the issue on a domestic level. Now we need to retrieve Mr. Solo and apprehend the person responsible, to ensure this doesn’t happen again.”

“Agreed,” Illya said. “Do we have any idea where he might have been taken?”

“Well, our Hungarian general friend seems to have made far more money that his station would indicate — thanks to his activities with T.H.R.U.S.H., most likely. He apparently owned or rented several properties around, in addition to his primary Budapest residence. Uno Manor, Ketto Chateau, Trois Hall, and one Vierte Estate. Robin would have inherited all of those homes upon his death. All of those places are rather secluded; the perfect spot for nefarious T.H.R.U.S.H. activities. They’re all good candidates for your search.”

“But if we raid the wrong one, Napoleon will likely be dead by the time we realize our mistake,” Illya said, looking miserable. “He is far better at riddles than I am. He would be able to pick out the right one.” 

“He’s at the Vietre Estate,” Gaby said, slowly.

“What?” Illya stared at her. “How can you be sure?”

“The media is the fourth estate. Vietre is German for fourth. T.H.R.U.S.H. has been incredibly punny this entire time. Let’s hope that’s their undoing.” 

Kuryakin nodded. “That makes sense.”

“It’s as good a reasoning as any,” Waverly said. “Now, get out there and get Napoleon back.”

▽▽▽

**_The Vierte Estate_ **

**_Somewhere in the Alps, Switzerland_ **

Between the biting cold and the philosophical discussion, Napoleon nearly dozed off several times during Robin’s speech.

“Are you falling asleep?” she snapped, at one point.

“Yes. But it’s honestly not you. I’m not trying to be condescending. It’s been a trying few days and I’m feeling quite sleep deprived. Your motivation is compelling. Back to where you were — something about free will being humanity’s true curse.”

“Oh Napoleon, that’s simplifying it quite a bit.” A lock of Solo’s dark, slightly mussed hair had formed into a question mark on his forehead. Robin smoothed it back with her thumb. “But if we eliminate certain human behaviors, with _science_ , we eliminate all of society’s ills and true, universal happiness can be unlocked.”

From the pyre, he could see that the T.H.R.U.S.H. bigwigs had all arrived. He wondered what their invitations looked like, whether they’d mentioned his execution. Could you bring a plus one to a burning? And, more importantly, how had he been billed? The famous and nefarious U.N.C.L.E. agent Napoleon Solo? Or just some schmuck that got caught? 

“I suppose this makes me your Duke of Wellington,” Robin whispered in Solo’s ear. 

Napoleon smiled, sadly. “You’re far smarter than him.”

“Charming.” Robin kissed him on the cheek, and then hopped off the pyre to go mingle with her guests. 

Napoleon sighed. The Battle of Waterloo had also involved less champagne and human kindling, if he remembered his history. 

▽▽▽

**_The Vierte Estate_ **

**_Somewhere in the Alps, Switzerland_ **

Napoleon was almost happy by the time Robin sauntered over with a lit torch. He’d been fruitlessly attempting to make eye contact with a member of the wait staff for the better part of an hour, struggling get a glass of champagne or an hors d’oeuvres out of the deal.

“I’m afraid it’s time, my friend.” She smiled, the fire casting a warm glow on her pretty face. 

“‘ _ Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily _ , _ ’ _ ” Solo said, bleakly. __

“I’m so glad you seem to take after your more famous namesake.” Robin winked at him. “I’d far rather see a man like you go up in this blaze of glory than live on as one of my brainless servants.”

“I…” Napoleon grimaced. “Thank you?” 

Robin held out the torch and the crowd of T.H.R.U.S.H. The audience became hushed. “With this cleansing ceremonial fire, we spark a new age for T.H.R.U.S.H., and for the world!” Digging about in her jacket pocket, she produced a glass container that looked a bit like a perfume bottle. “I will also use this opportunity as yet another demonstration of this powerful product. When I spritz Mr. Solo here, I can command him to… say… recite T.H.R.U.S.H.’s oath of allegiance as he burns to death at our hands.”

The crowd cheered and bunched closer together, tipsy with champagne and anticipation.  Solo considered his options. If he came into contact with serum, it’d all be over, most likely. If that missed him, and the fire somehow melted through the chains holding him to the post, he could try to run for it. Perhaps fashion some do-it-yourself skis and make a break for some quaint, ice-capped village.

That was all rather fantastic, though. If the chains held, he’d just try to breathe in as much smoke as possible. Choking wasn’t much fun, but burning to death seemed like a particularly bad way to go. 

Solo stared out at the crowd of smiling faces around him. Perhaps it would be easier to just let go and accept this. The possibility of getting away seemed more futile and ridiculous by the moment. 

“Goodbye, Napoleon Solo,” the T.H.R.U.S.H. guests chanted.

“Goodbye, friends,” he said, with a bright smile.

Then, his world was engulfed in a red blaze.

Only, it hadn’t originated from Robin’s torch. No… an aerial vehicle had crashed into the manor house, in some sort of kamikaze mission. He winced, imagining the structural and aesthetic damage to the beautiful building.

For a moment, Solo worried if the explosion had been the tragic end of some misguided attempt to rescue him. Could Illya and Gaby have crashed just now? He felt sick.

Then, a hissing sound filled the air, and plumes of smoke began erupting through the crowd. The T.H.R.U.S.H. elites screamed and ran. Guards shot machine guns past Napoleon, aiming toward the maze and orchards toward the edge of the grounds.  Much to Napoleon’s surprise, someone returned fire. 

“Those would be my real friends,” he said, winking at Robin.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” she said, through gritted teeth. “You’ll be burnt to a crisp by the time they get to you.” 

With that, she dropped the torch onto the pile of newspapers. Solo’s eyes widened as the flames flickered closer and closer, devouring the stacks of print in their wake.

▽▽▽

Once Illya and Gaby had figured out where Napoleon was, they had circled around the estate a few times in the plane, to get a good sense of where to land.  However, seeing that the manor house was perched atop a mountain, there were no nearby fields to provide the tiny aircraft a safe place to set down.

“What will we do?” Illya had asked Gaby, shouting to be heard over the roar of the engines. She was piloting the plane, her warm brown eyes narrowed in concentration.

Waverly had assured them that a faction of U.N.C.L.E. agents from all of the available European branches would be honing in on their location at any moment. However, they couldn’t wait that long. Solo was in danger. The raid needed to begin now. 

“We’re running out of time. I say we just bail,” Gaby said, after a while. Illya had shrugged, and that’s exactly what they had done. Teller had angled the plane to crash into the estate (with a silent prayer that Napoleon was indeed the distant figure standing atop the pyre-like structure). They jumped out, deployed their parachutes, and drifted to the edge of the grounds.

Gaby immediately began distracting the guards with bursts of machine gun fire (all the while moving about strategically, to keep them guessing and fool them into believing the raid party was far larger than just two agents).

Meanwhile, Illya’s role was to toss smoke bombs every which way and focus on freeing Cowboy. As the former KGB agent ducked behind an overturned table, he was surprised to realize that things were going mostly according to plan, so far. He looked up from his hiding spot and saw a bright orange glow burning through the smoky air. He moved toward it, dodging the fleeing T.H.R.U.S.H. power-brokers. 

Then, he saw the source of the blaze. Napoleon was tied to a stake, standing over a burning pile of newspapers. The fire curled closer and closer to where he stood.  Without thinking, Illya scrambled up the un-burnt side of the mountain of newsprint. “Cowboy!” 

Solo turned his head and smiled. “Peril!” Then he began to cough violently. “Sorry. Smoke inhalation.”

Rummaging around in his jacket pocket, Illya located his CO2 laser-powered fence cutters, which he used to slice through the chains holding Solo. Then, Napoleon and Illya tumbled down the stacks, escaping just before the blaze consumed the stake.

“Thank you.” Solo doubled over for a moment, wheezing. Once he caught his breath, he nodded at the fence cutters with a mischievous smile. “Those the new CIA model?”

“If they were, you’d be well done right now,” Illya said, smiling back.

Solo nodded and then turned to take in the turbulent scene before them. The air was still thick with grayish, artificial fog. Gaby had seemingly managed to pick off or scare away most of the machine gun toting guards, because there seemed to be less gunfire coming from the far end of the property. The airplane-induced fire in the chateau itself had died down somewhat, but a column of smoke still coiled into the chilly air. “So, I take it that we’re not flying out of here.”

“Waverly says that backup’s on the way,” Illya told him. “We need to find Gaby and just hold a position until they arrive.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Illya and Napoleon whirled around to see Robin, her lips pressed into a thin line. Beside her stood Gaby, her face blank. Her machine gun was gone.

“Shoot the American,” Robin said, speaking into her  _ Echo _ pen. 

Teller drew her pistol and shot Napoleon in the shoulder. Solo fell to the ground, clutching the wound and letting slip a stream of eloquent French swear words.

“Gaby—” Illya reached out his hand. 

“She’s not your Gaby anymore. She’s mine.” Robin produced the perfume bottle of serum, spraying Illya in the eyes. His face immediately drained of expression. “You all ruined my scheme. Shooting you isn’t enough. I’m going to have a bit of fun.” She raised the pen to her lips. “Draw your guns.” Gaby and Illya silently obeyed. “Now,  _ kill _ each other.”

The two U.N.C.L.E. agents stepped toward one another, until the barrels of their guns were pressed against one another’s temples. However, they didn’t fire. They stood there, eyes locked, as still as garden statues.

“This is fun,” Robin smiled at Solo. “We could take bets on who will break first? My money’s on the little German girl.” 

▽▽▽

Illya wanted to scream. He wanted to shout at Gaby to just shoot him, already. Robin’s order to  _ kill  _ echoed throughout his entire being. He couldn’t resist. The pressure rose in his chest, threatening to squeeze the life out of him. He  _ had  _ to pull the trigger. He felt himself begin to fade into the blur, into the rhythm of the command.

Illya forced himself to focus. Gaby’s brown eyes, wide and overflowing with tears, stared at him through the smoke. He remembered the ice melting from his eyelashes in her apartment, the tiny paper fire, the jagged blare of the record, when he thought he’d lost her forever…

_ crycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycrycry _ .

“Gaby,” he whispered.

“Illya.” 

She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. They stood there, locked in their embrace, guns still aimed at one another’s foreheads. 

▽▽▽

Solo sighed as Gaby and Illya lowered their weapons and stopped kissing. , Altogether, that had been a rather terrifying five minutes. 

“Are you two back?” he asked.

“Yes…” the Russian said. Teller nodded, brushing away her tears with the heel of her hand.

“Thank goodness,” Solo said. The gunshot wound in his shoulder (combined with the smoke in his longs and the thin mountain air) had left him rather lightheaded. 

“That doesn’t make sense!” Robin gaped at the U.N.C.L.E. agents. She slipped the pen back behind her ear. “I… I’ve never… How could you resist my commands? My serum?”

“You underestimated the power of love, Robin,” Napoleon smirked.

"Oh please." Illya rolled his eyes. “In the KGB, I was required to build up resistance to many poisons and formulas.”

“And I definitely ingested things I shouldn’t have as a child, the few times I snuck into my father’s laboratory,” Gaby added, quietly. 

“In that case, you underestimated the power of these two freaks, Robin,” Solo countered, as the sound of a chopper roared above them. 

“That would be Waverly’s backup,” Gaby said. “Late, as usual.”

“Where are they going to land?” Illya asked, squinting at the hovering aircraft.

“Hand me a gun and I’ll watch Robin, here,” Solo volunteered. “You two had better go try to act as a landing team.”

Gaby handed him her pistol, and then disappeared into the smoke with Illya.

Solo turned to Robin. “Now, I have a few questions for you, Ms. True.”

A faint smile crossed her lips. “Always so many questions. You’re a very good fake journalist, Mr. Solo.”

“No, no, I’m a fake photographer, remember?”

“Either way, shoot.” She eyed the gun.

“This one’s just a personal curiosity. Is Robin your real name?”

“Does it really matter?”

Solo smiled. “Of course it does.”

The woman just shook her head and tilted her eyes skyward, like she was trying not to cry. Napoleon decided not to press. 

“Is there any more serum left?”

“It’s stored all around the estate, if you must know.”

“I suppose you’ll help us round up the last few batches?”

“Oh, you suppose so?”

“Robin, you know it’s over,” Napoleon said. “You can either destroy it all now, or we’ll confiscate it and do it a for you.”

“Or one of these lovely T.H.R.U.S.H. people come back here someday and take it,” Robin said.

“Is that what you want? Do you want one of these fools your father worked with to harvest the fruits of your greatest achievement? You’ve done all the work. You’ve done all the thinking — why should one of these old has-beens get to rule the world? Just because they happened to show up at this little fundraiser and be in the right place at the right time. Give it to me. U.N.C.L.E. will destroy it. It’s a clean ending. Nobody wins.”

Robin smiled, sadly. Napoleon saw her hand brush a strand of hair away from her face. “Nobody wins.” 

He heard a small click, and then an infernal roaring. Fires sprang up across the grounds. Part of the burning castle exploded, spraying rocks and debris everywhere. Napoleon covered his head. When the din quieted, he looked up. Robin lay next to him. Her wide eyes stared up at the column of smoke billowing into the mountain air. 

Something was clutched in her gloved fingers: a snapped pen emblazoned with the  _ Echo _ ’s standard Gothic font. He saw the wiring within, and the faint trail of blood trailing from her lip. She’d kept a radio, poison  _ and _ a detonator inside her complimentary pen. 

Rubbing grit out of his eyes, Solo couldn’t help but be a little impressed. 

▽▽▽

Pain flickering through his mostly numb legs, Illya crawled through the wreckage, even as the shards of glass and metal bit into him. Somewhere on the outside, Napoleon was shouting. But he had to keep searching. Gaby had to be somewhere in the rubble, she had to be okay; he had just seen her.

He punched through the remains of a door and saw the bright turquoise of her dress. Gaby’s eyes were closed. She looked so small. 

Illya gathered Gaby in his arms. He held her as ashes drifted down from the sky like snowfall. 


	11. The Evergreen Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue. A few years after the events of the Lonely Hearts Affair, T.H.R.U.S.H. returns.

**_April 11, 1967_ **

**_Reine, Moskenesoya, Norway_ **

Atop the hill overlooking the glassy expanse of the bay sat a bright red cottage. 

Gaby stood in the kitchen of the cabin. Illya sat at the small table. Across from him, Napoleon slowly lowered the newspaper he’d been reading. “You two should get the  _ Echo _ to run a wedding profile on your big day in June.”

In the wake of the entire T.H.R.U.S.H. debacle, Waverly had stepped in and funded the recovery of the spiraling newspaper. With the head of U.N.C.L.E. as its chief, passive investor, the outlet had gotten back to the hard-hitting coverage that once defined it. 

“That would be perfect,” Illya said, dryly. 

“I can imagine the lede. Gaby Teller, a top REDACTED, and Illya Kuryakin, also a successful REDACTED, wed at the lovely REDACTED on REDACTED,” Gaby smiled.

Illya sat up from the table and walked over to his fiancée. She looped her arms around his neck and kissed him. Then, holding hands, they walked to the window.  Birdsong filled the warm air of the kitchen.

“Sounds like our T.H.R.U.S.H. friends are back,” Napoleon said, going back to leafing through the paper. 

Illya looked out at the branch that stretched right against their house. Two speckled brown birds had built a neat, cup nest in the tree. They hunched over five dark, spotted blue eggs. 

“Song thrushes,” Gaby said. 

“That joke never gets old, Cowboy,” Illya said.

“Never,” Gaby smiled. Illya leaned down and kissed her again while the thrushes chirped outside.

Shaking his head, Solo stood up and moved to the door of the cottage. He opened it and stared out into the bright day. “ _ Thus, though we cannot make our sun stand still, yet we will make him run. _ ”


End file.
